With the wax of feng shui candles I butter biscuits
     reinvent lime juice
     over fish and malted maize
the roughage just keeps 
         a kick of jam, battered in flakey quinoa
     internal organs 
     drained and dried, a cloud of ghetto
glands, savory pepper 
and achiote
         in pans better than these, in Babylonian ovens
     embryos of sausage
     the beautiful plumage of bacon 
everyone dead at the end
of dinner
         I always get crunchy debauchery without the head
     what people believe 
     foretold via entrails, the kids 
get tired and leave for college
it’s a massacre
         we rise to make lovely quarrels on the floor
     sun virgins 
     grow undergarments, I am
a gentleman and a bad child
         as gentlemen who’ve grunted before, never 
     slaughter more 
     than you can salt, the river 
so eloquent just sits there for centuries
the mud
         looks for a clean person to rub, we remember 
     nobility but not
     haste, the mother of unhappiness
native to households the size
of homemade
         a cabernet a few years from the cross 
     warm-fuzzies in the mouth
scholars talking books wrangle 
over a quarter
         the worm stays the song of the robin 
     a miser dies
     the dirt turns up its nose, my eye
darts, I swerve and walk into 
caveman mode
         crooked hair on credit is good for nothing
     epics fail the rest
     of your life, the tongue keeps us deaf
of the thirty-six alternatives, 
running’s always best