ALL RESPONSES |
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Finding the exact nail color
to match the steak tartare
was Heloise's mission,
so she sat to marinate one in all. |
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Bill lived
across the street
from my brown house
in the little town
in Wisconsin
More important,
it seemed
than their four boys,
two cats, or
Bill’s job
on the railroad,
his drinking consumed
him like raw meat;
he brought it home
with him often
late at night
in stumbling moon
light,
I watched him
sometimes crawl
across his lawn
like a man covered
with wet burlap
His wife, Garnett,
would end her day
reading her Bible,
pages worn at the corners
by nightly stressed fingers
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Molly sat on her bed in her room decorated with rainbow wallpaper, covered-up with Prince and hockey posters. She was smoking a joint and chatting to Liz on the phone she recently received as a present for her 16th birthday. It would be unfair to accuse her of irrational embitterment, bitter though she was. Bitter was the norm in her household; she was merely a reflection.
“So what are you doing tonight?” Liz asked.
Molly exhaled, loudly and likely for show “I have a trigonometry test in the morning, so I should crank on math”
“And smoke a joint”
“And smoke a joint”
“I can’t believe your mom never busts you”
“She is just glad I’m home and out of her hair. Your mom is coming over for dinner you know, and Mrs. Fenwick, and someone else”
“Yeah I know. My dad and I are trying to teach each other Smoke on the Water tonight.”
“Cool, I love your dad, so much better than Eddie”
“Where is Eddie?”
“I don’t know, hasn’t been around much lately. My mom is happy about that I’m sure. I can hear her downstairs, singing to her meat”
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Chest wound; single bullet
right armpit entrance
left nipple exit
April 21, 1918
Camel-gunner fired shots
claimed the red death for Canada
Australian anti-aircraft gunny—
vickers engorged with pride,
"it was me" he insisted
until his own demise
Theories and histories,
swollen egos--
battle cries for credit of
who killed the great hunter
forgetting he was a man,
once a boy,
who loved flying airplanes and the color of meat.
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You never handed me grillers
with nails like that!
Just as well, I wouldn't
have lived up to the hype.
It's beer I take with my
steak, you know! |
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The Irish love their meat.
Why else would Queen Medb
of Connacht send her army
to steal a bull from Ulster?
They fight the hero Cú Chulainn,
who goes into warp spasm and
kills an enormous number of people.
The hero dies, the bull dies.
They should have had lawyers.
Violence could have been avoided,
or at least legally justified.
As go cattle, so goes humanity. |
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Are you our permanent teacher because
the last one walked out.
We chased her away,
fuck yeah, we did (high fives & ghetto cat-calls).
I’m here for the day,
and I’ll be damned if you’re going
to run me over. Run me away.
If you want to dance with me, let’s dance.
Worse by better, if you know what I mean.
I’m not fresh meat.
You will learn, whether you like
it or not. I am not a babysitter,
I am an educator, you self-entitled,
punk-ass, puffed up peacocks—you don’t know shit.
But you’re about to. Because I’m going to
teach you, in spite of yourselves. I’m going to get you talking
in appropriate ways about things that matter and it’s not going to
include the ‘f-bomb,’ but trench warfare and Imperialism.
Screw what the sub-notes say, let’s talk
about the Red Baron. Killer German cherry in a slate grey, allied sky.
You come back for reading class an hour later and want to talk
about him some more. See his picture. View his plane.
You’s tough, but you’s a good teacher.
I appreciate that, but you’re seven minutes late and that’s a demerit.
String of curses,
we start the dance again…
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it all seems so frivolous
you and I and red meat |
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| We used to get filet mignon from a man in the front office whose family owned the slaughter yards. Meat so sweet that it was a crime to wrap it in bacon and broil, but a crime we committed nonetheless. On crackling frost winter days, the smooth scent of what we always knew was meant for our palates, as well as our stomachs, rolled its warm tongue out of the stove, and up the stairs, and into my room. When we three or four college age men finally liberated our broiling pan from the down below—when we dipped bread in the juices and roasted that also—when at the end of dinner we leaned back, less than lean ourselves, I knew content, and pushed forward to find happy. |
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She served him
so tender and rare
a steak; he cried out
in passion, "The shanks
of children, it must be!"
and declared her murderous.
she gave a wry smile and bowed
for the crimson slabs
of flesh concealed
the nightshade
"Not yet." |
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I motorcycle through the mountains at night.
As I gain elevation, patches of frost, even snow.
I'm after a buddy leading in a warm car,
somewhere up ahead. We split at the gas station,
and I said I would catch up - no problem.
He must be fucking flying, because I'm flying
and I don't see any sign of him. Beginning
to think I passed him somehow. My hands so cold
they've stiffened into hooks of frozen meat.
So dead, the right can barely work the throttle. |
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red like pageant dresses
red like weight rooms filled
red like sex and satan
red like every morning and every evening
red like power
red like potential for disease
red like tongues twisting
red like maple after green
red as if there was no doubt
red as if pink was not enough
red like war until
all goes black
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meat
what am i supposed
to write about meat
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Air-burned like raw meat...
Bright sensuous red
turned into an unappealing burnished color.
You handled me well.
I was a willing victim
dreaming of a fairytale ending.
My mistake.
My heart in your hands
felt naked and exposed
like a piece of raw meat,
and as such you treated me.
What were, fresh emotions
waiting to be smoothed by your fire,
are now painful memories,
raw feelings that keep on bleeding. |
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