Monday, February 11, 2013
I can tell you what I need is a good periodontist:
my gums are so sensitive, separated and lumpy,
I have to let my cornflakes sit and wilt:
the niacin leaks out before I get it in
and the ten percent daily requirement of iron
rusts: I’ve got so mashed potatoes best
accommodate my desire: my gums
before them
relax and, as it were, smile
Ammons, “Renovating”
Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Eating as the only form of professionalism most people ever attain

We watched him use his spoon to mold the mashed potatoes on his plate into the shape of a volcanic mountain. He poured gravy ever so carefully into the opening at the top. Then he set to work ridding his steak of fat, veins and other imperfections. It occurred to me that eating is the only form of professionalism most people ever attain.

[ … ] 

He immersed a piece of steak in the gravy that sat in the volcanic depression, then put it in his mouth. But he did not begin chewing until he’d scooped some potatoes from the lower slopes and added it to the meat. A tension seemed to be building around the question of whether he could finish the gravy before the potatoes collapsed.

— White Noise

Saturday, June 16, 2012 Saturday, March 24, 2012

"eesh, bangers and mash writ large!"

Eating In

When the city melts like butter
and the sky sizzles like bacon
we’ll be safe and snug
deep in our bomb shelter.

You’ll read my palm
running your finger along
the long life line.
We’ll smile

and cuddle together
like potatoes in their jackets
roll together
like sausages in the oven.

Richard James Allen

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

from Donald Hall, “Eating the Pig”

I am drawn to him, my brother the pig,

with his large ears cocked forward,
with his tight snout, with his small ferocious teeth   
in a jaw propped open
by an apple. How bizarre, this raw apple clenched   
in a cooked face! Then I see his eyes,
his eyes cramped shut, his no-eyes, his eyes like X’s
in a comic strip, when the character gets knocked out.
This afternoon they read directions
from a book: The eyeballs must be removed

or they will burst during roasting. So they hacked them out.

[…]

Then a young woman cuts off his head.
It comes off so easily, like a detachable part.   
With sudden enthusiasm we dismantle the pig,   
we wrench his trotters off, we twist them
at shoulder and hip, and they come off so easily.   
Then we cut open his belly and pull the skin back.
For myself, I scoop a portion of left thigh,   
moist, tender, falling apart, fat, sweet.
We forage like an army starving in winter
that crosses a pass in the hills and discovers
a valley of full barns—
cattle fat and lowing in their stalls,
bins of potatoes in root cellars under white farmhouses.   
barrels of cider, onions, hens squawking over eggs—
and the people nowhere, with bread still warm in the oven.
[rest of poem here]