like foil in the oven, the meat detenderized,
rough. Art is the straight line underneath
the scribble, I heard you say, unequivocated,
like just rice was your diet, budgeted. I prefer
the unalterable, dissolved sky, yellow as hay,
interspersed with grape clouds, lemon-lime
clouds, clouds of aerosol disseminated and oxidized,
canned clouds, their incessant restoration as if
to recussitate our reproductive instincts,
I responded, hungry. Back home, Arthur's
serves a two-pounder for ten dollars.
During mastication, acids dissassemble proteins,
the meat charred and cracked like a baked planet
and who's to say I won't sit here eating when it happens.
Cherubs will flaunt their conclusive dance, their vegan
disposition. Drool will still dribble from my tongue.
