Tag: cooking

Fuck Theory Kill

Joseph M. Gerace1 Comment

Wikipedia Poem, No. 880

On hand acidic trap in the bowel of what I’d contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive oil, salt, too late now I’m 28 and acidic trapped in this newspaper executive security forces in the making like delicate membrane fangs. The dog struggles in the bowl. The bowl of nervous broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s a word: I’ve got to brandish fangs. I strain at the calcium light a less periphery universe? Bowl of bloodless bone of bloodless bone

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Of bloodless bone of broiled potatoes In a way every newspaper executive who pretends he’s got the word: I’ve got to wire the bowl of torn flesh refers to background themselves off conside Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. In a way several different mixtures of contaminated withering electronic senses someone else’s fairly compensated to be? A bowl of flourishing myself. Sick and acidic trapped in themselves of torn flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading magazines and

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Acidic trapped in hand the french dykes burn. I stop reading. Suddenly a tired bind: interred in my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it themselves consider Myles Brecht less bone of broiled potatoes, olive who pretends he’s the word: I’ve got nothing to do today. I stop reading magazines and son. The leaf sure I enjoy it cost broiled potatoes stretches brecht less bone of broiled potatoes — in a way several different mixtures of wire then copy editors hurl themselves far above

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Themselves above contained with soft steel wire. Am I alive Who pretends he’s words: I’ve got to be millefiori i’ve got to bind tired: That term, i’ve got to be? A bowl of broiled potatoes in magazines and the bowl of broiled potatoes struggle off condo roofs — And don’t call the jump acidic trapped in the money to be honest — even they’re flesh. My lips burn. I stop reading once free the copy editors hurl themselves

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Myles Brecht tossed off condo roofs — and settling myself Sick and the bowl of nervous flourishing electronic something or other myself Sick metal tin? covered in thousand books Myles Brecht less bone than broiled potatoes. The dykes burn. I stop reading electronic someone else’s fairly compensated to be useless bone of broiled potatoes, olive oil, salt, too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m not sure If I enjoy it is too much pepper Burns my mouth: I’m notorious

any work that creates discomfort “makes officials here nervous.”

Sources:

“The Sausage Master of Minsk” by August Kleinzahler

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        I was sausage master of Minsk;
young girls brought parsley to my shop
and watched as I ground
coriander, garlic and calves’ hearts.

At harvest time they’d come with sheaves:
hags in babushkas, girls plump
as quail, wrapped in bright tunics,
switching the flanks of oxen.
Each to the other, beast and woman,
goggle-eyed at the market’s flow.

My art is that of my father:
even among stinking shepherds, bean-
brained as the flocks they tend, our
sausages are known. The old man
sits in back, ruined in his bones, a scold.

So it was my trade brought wealth.
My knuckles shone with lard, flecks
of summer savory clung to my palms.
My shop was pungent with spiced meat
and sweat: heat from my boiling pots,
my fretful labors with casings,
expertly stuffed. Fat women in shawls
muttered and swabbed their brows.
Kopeks made a racket on my tray.

But I would have none of marriage:
the eldest son, no boon,
even with the shop’s renown, was
I to my parents. Among mothers
with daughters, full-bottomed, shy,
I was a figure of scorn.

In that season when trade was a blur,
always, from the countryside, there was one,
half-formed, whose eyes, unlike
the haggling matrons’ squints, roamed
and sometimes found my own.
And of her I would inquire.
Before seed-time they always returned.

Tavern men speak freely of knives,
of this, of that. Call me a fool.
For in spring I would vanish
to the hills and in a week return,
drawn, remote, my hair mussed,
interlaced with fine, pubescent yarn.

Source: Kleinzahler, August. Live from the Hong Kong Nile Club: Poems : 1975-1990. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2003. Print.

‘How is the sky like a grater, Jimmy?’

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grater-sm

For James Schuyler

How is the sky like a grater, Jimmy?
What is sent up for shredding?

Touches blue-bore and spark-moon,
Cloud or torch in a rush against—

No, not again, this
Is how I am like a grater.

So, what comes down lesser?
Smaller, not sky. The sky

Is neither catalog,
Nor inventory,

Litany; it is not
What comes down.

The sun sets.
You can’t see it.

I’ve put too much stock
In the pot. A carrot then.

Stalks of fibrous celery chopped down.
The pot is hungry and inconceivable,

A manic boiling, now, not always
Roiled like this, sometimes, never crying

Unable to get out from under the covers,
in bed as hilled leeks. A planned community.

Sliced thinly, not shredded alive. Small circles
Small miracles, or. I listen to Le Roi Malgré Lui,

“The Reluctant King”, on my Playstation 4
And curse the prism-sun blasting the laptop’s

Lungs and abdominal cavity. It is your task
To know when I am in this room,

It is your task to know when I am in this room.
It is your task to know

When I am looking through these eyes
Or through these eyes.

wikipedia poem, no. 7

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photo (21)

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Dinner Poem

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Image

At the earliest ending of childhood
At 30
Creamy yolk, sharp red horns

Pepper-punch out from the plate
Here, there about the ocean
A potato, an isle of curled spinach

Dash of self-sufficiency, salt, Love
As the sun sets precisely at six
No longer a scrawny burger washed down by coke

for Wally