With the wax of feng shui candles I butter biscuits
reinvent lime juice
over fish and malted maize
the roughage just keeps
growing
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
grunting
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
complements
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