Desperate for an audience,
coughing a carousel of
meaningless free association;
He improvises a poem, while
standing at the microphone.
He does not take time
to conjure his words, considering
what comes next—
so he repeats each line twice,
like some expired bacon
he spits out from his mouth,
back in the pan
to fry up some more
before trying to swallow it
The audience, in an instant, notices the stink
of regurgitated, pre-processed meat,
which by now—
is not even recognizable as ever being meat;
As ever once being cut from
was a living thing.
NO. This poem is no longer meat;
No longer a poem.
It is just heavily peppered, pan fried stink,
crumbling in a stew of stomach juices—
sloshing before us
on our plates and stage.
The audience, quite rightly,
refuses to chew
what the poet has served—
and sends back to the kitchen
what should never be ordered;
The free associated, poorly read poem.
SO PLEASE, at the bottom of every menu,
wherever poetry is written at the microphone,
PLEASE amend the Food and Drug Administration warning to read as follows; THAT
Consuming raw or undercooked meats, poultry, seafood, shellfish, eggs, or POETRY
may increase your risk of foodborne illness.
(But please, tip your servers, regardless.)