Ars Poetica: Ode on an American Cheeseburger

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Thou still uneaten mound of deliciousness!

There you lie in all your wondrous layers.

What fringed lettuce leaves

peek from beneath your rounded bun.

The slice of red onion ignites passion.

What pickles are present to drive men mad!

The golden cheddar drips in rivulets

over that medium-rare

aggregation of ground beef.

I chomp, my pursuit ended.

--Zazu