Posted on January 21st, 2013
It does not have to be good
You do not have to wok a hundred chiles
Through immolation on your knees, weeping.
You have only to let the soft loaf of your body
eat what it eats.
Tell me how you prepare, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the dinner goes on.
Meanwhile Fieri and the clogged icons of the airways
are chewing across the landscapes
over the squeeze bottles and the deep freeze
the pizzas and the poppers.
Meanwhile the Achatz, high in the Alinead air
is making foams again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lowly,
the farm offers itself to your imagination,
fat with wild beets, fibrous and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the plating of things.