Culinary School

Standard

My fingers, splayed
and separated, touch
the splendid dust
of fortune before bidding
the scene adieu.

Clumsy, but with a hint
of panache, lightly spiced
for the more daring palates.

An overbearing spread
can deaden the senses.

Blurred lenses
and calluses thick as cinder blocks.

Here’s a thought –
swallow the world
with a spoonful of malice,
then count backwards
from a hundred and touch
your lips to the chalice of indifference
to prevent an eruption of vomit.

The subtle corruption
of everyday will lacerate
your gullet anyway,
so there’s no need
to exacerbate the situation.

Marginal incarceration
of mistakes, shaken and baked
with cactus husks,
staked to the grill of a Hummer
and steamed with exhaust –

recipe for a lost generation.

-r. miller

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