Bruce's Sweet Potato

The other day I was thinking about my body and I was wondering where I went wrong. How could I have been so out of shape, so my diet to neglect this great physical expression of myself without even noticing the downward trend in the kingdom without glory of existence which came to be known as a potato to couch?

Couch Potato. The term itself conjures up images of some Sun, vegetative consciousness happily installed in his living room watching television and self-fertilization with buttered popcorn and beer. Where did I get this identity? My father was a workaholic and all but a couch potato. I would have classified as more of a healthy ear of corn: rapid growth with tassels of gold in the wind. My mother was an energetic woman who filled her life with your friends, family and strangers. Perhaps a cross between a sweet potato cooked and juicy pear. Both were still on the road. Both raised their children to be more active copies of themselves and we have been anything but couch potatoes in our quest for life.

It seems that the roots of my sofa potatohood were buried somewhere in the dark recesses of my consciousness. It would take a huge effort on my part, but I promised myself that I would put in the popcorn and beer, throw myself off the couch and follow this puzzle to come against all odds. With various strong enough body processes that marked the beginning of an unusual move, my frozen joints creaked into action and I was leaving and running. . . well, at least pace. . . toward my goal.

The first stop was my office library. The couch potato in me is delighted that, as a writer working at home, I did not have to go far to begin my research. Great calorie burn-off I felt so compelled to hire did not have to start right away. He wants to come after my brain with stoking the mental framework it needs to gain some perspective on the current state of sad things. I was now in search of food for my mind, the kind of mental food I needed to meet this challenge. With the trained eye and the taste of a gourmet, I studied my options. The menu is eclectic and full of promise. I could feel my synapses begin to salivate in advance.

It's better like that! slurp slurp. . . Not exactly a bowl of chunky empirical pure science. Too spicy cioppino emotions. The gazpacho was fresh and point: we can consciously override our planned behavior by exercising our free will. Nice. And the holding of dollars on the back of my tongue as I savored my meal mind further.

I decided to start with the first light, to drink in a poem called Pete Graf anatomy lesson:

Fingers like biting and nose picking
And insistence and survey and take-off clothing.
The legs are for walking and kicking and cramps;
The languages are spoken and licking stamps.
Roads to stimulate whole blood to your brain,
But basically, back, everything is done in the vein.
The gonads are great, but not for all of us;
But if you're a man, then you'll have a ball.

drink too much alcohol and your liver explodes;
Snort coke too, you'll blow your nodes
Adenoids are enlarged mass of tissue,
Subtract a solenoid, and you'll have less issue.
You may sit on a flagpole, but not at half mast;
You will be in two places and made a half-ass.

Yes. Munch Munch. . . This had everything I wanted to start: with a little zest, a little irreverence, and a certain freshness - all wrapped in a light, an explosion of crunchy sensory titillation. I could feel my mouth to respond to this stimulus and I knew I was in more delicacies that I continue my explorations.

Soon, the first course was finished and it was ti.