Stop sexing
the geese.
Wild penises pluckily
losing out on philanthropic
endeavors: the pâté
was overwrought, perhaps.
Who put goofballs
in the mac-n-cheese.
A half-day wasted,
extracting salt from tears
just to raise the boiling temp.
of the water in which I
boil two plump dogs: I
do not reveal to you
this agonizing process.
In Brooklyn there is a store
that sells nothing but fancy
mayonnaise, a product
of oil and egg. Like a perfect
balance of l'homme and l'femme
(it's also a French word, which
I'm told is the language of love).
I know artists, I know poets,
who will tell you, "Oh,
I'm no artist, I'm no poet."
And I know those who,
insistent, say, "I am an artist,
I am a poet," with nothing
ever to show for themselves.
All of which is fine, but I
have never met the one who
never cooks who says,
"I am a culinary master."
I walk around with food stains
all over myself.
"You're a mess!" I'm told.
Indelicately, I reply,
"You should see my kitchen."
No one gets nasty,
sadly.
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