Meat

Extrude me through your grinder
Pat me, shape me into a nice round ball
Of tender, succulent surceance
Find where you put that cast-iron skillet
The left-over grease from the fat-back
Put it on to melt away the milky white
Start the grill, get it hot
Let the heat permeate through
Smell the acrid smoke rise from the gristle charring

Now scoop the ball and flatten it gently
With a ready spatula
Onto the hot black
See the outer skin of my ground flesh
Fry in the sizzling emollience
Now flip this browning side over
To the pink that’s holding onto raw
Two more minutes basking away
In my own collective juices of thought

Am I done? Am I ready enough for you?
Careful not to overcook me
Some rawness is fine
A rare delight to keep a little
If you ruin me
Well, I suppose you’d want to try again
On some other unsuspecting piece of meat
And I can’t blame you
Cooking meat takes genuine practice

(June 2011)

we have this certain misunderstanding
makes us beg, plead—philosophize
then we think of pleasant turns:
such trees in fine meadows
an oryx jumping out of harm's way
a piece of banded chalcedony
ornaments made from nature's toolbox

i dreamt of Faulkner's Nobel speech
about refusing to accept the decline of man
Did he ever feel guilt for lying?
Did he ever have a one true friend?

my child says we're all "fakes"
some cynical wisdom in that, i suppose
but kindness doesn't turn away
it foolishly accepts but finds reward

flights of angels

something pure about addiction
so pure in its single-mindedness
a purity that doesn't replenish
pure blackness, pure evil
a love that kills
shakes painfully to the core
chews and spits out its victims
in a garbled wad of phlegm-mix
waiting for the next fix