foodverses
foodverses:

Sestina for Hooters Some of it was expected— the girls,                          in their Tamara panty hose— sickly orangelegs, the same color as the buffalo wings,     serving cheap beers to bores on sad afternoons. We knew about the clichéd booty baring uniforms—What we didn’t expect were tables full of families.  Or the entire softball team, and their families,eating like this was a place you should take little girls—fake breasts parading in too tight uniforms,people with bad taste swallowing piles of orange,while they drink away their summer afternoons,claiming, “I only come here for the wings.” As if by using the pathetic pretense of wings,you could erase that fact that familiesare not meant to spend their Sunday afternoonsin sexist chain restaurants, admiring girlswho have no problem being seen wearing orangeor working a job that requires hot pants as a uniform.  The iconic owl stares from each perky chest with uniform,creepy, “O” eyes that seem to say, “eat more wings.”And suddenly, I feel like I’m being swallowed by orange.A woman in a wheelchair smokes outside as familiesstare plaster-eyed at football, ignoring the girls,who don’t even bother to flirt for tips in the afternoon. We both agree that we’ve had better afternoons,as we note the nuances of the Hooters uniformsworn in the photos of the international pageant girls.Your burger is so bad that you can’t eat it, and perhaps wingswere actually the way to go.  I mean, all of these families,seem happy, their fingers and faces all slathered in orange. And really, what’s so bad about orange?It’s the color that adorns late summer afternoonsand recalls those lazy days spent outside with our families—Except that this is not the shade of the uniform.It’s not even a lively hue that sometimes peppers parrot wings—It’s the unfortunate tint of a too tanned Jersey girl. And I cannot accept this orange, even if it is a uniform.It’s like a bad Wings song blasting on a too hot afternoon—Music adored by clichéd girls who feel rejected by their families. 

foodverses:

Sestina for Hooters
 
Some of it was expected— the girls,                         
in their Tamara panty hose— sickly orange
legs, the same color as the buffalo wings,    
serving cheap beers to bores on sad afternoons.
We knew about the clichéd booty baring uniforms—
What we didn’t expect were tables full of families.
 
Or the entire softball team, and their families,
eating like this was a place you should take little girls—
fake breasts parading in too tight uniforms,
people with bad taste swallowing piles of orange,
while they drink away their summer afternoons,
claiming, “I only come here for the wings.”
 
As if by using the pathetic pretense of wings,
you could erase that fact that families
are not meant to spend their Sunday afternoons
in sexist chain restaurants, admiring girls
who have no problem being seen wearing orange
or working a job that requires hot pants as a uniform.
 
The iconic owl stares from each perky chest with uniform,
creepy, “O” eyes that seem to say, “eat more wings.”
And suddenly, I feel like I’m being swallowed by orange.
A woman in a wheelchair smokes outside as families
stare plaster-eyed at football, ignoring the girls,
who don’t even bother to flirt for tips in the afternoon.
 
We both agree that we’ve had better afternoons,
as we note the nuances of the Hooters uniforms
worn in the photos of the international pageant girls.
Your burger is so bad that you can’t eat it, and perhaps wings
were actually the way to go.  I mean, all of these families,
seem happy, their fingers and faces all slathered in orange.
 
And really, what’s so bad about orange?
It’s the color that adorns late summer afternoons
and recalls those lazy days spent outside with our families—
Except that this is not the shade of the uniform.
It’s not even a lively hue that sometimes peppers parrot wings—
It’s the unfortunate tint of a too tanned Jersey girl.
 
And I cannot accept this orange, even if it is a uniform.
It’s like a bad Wings song blasting on a too hot afternoon—
Music adored by clichéd girls who feel rejected by their families.
 

foodverses
foodverses:

Cento for Jovitas Surrounded by coming and going aromas,cinnamon eyes celebrate.A marriage of substances—they are this night, this music. Slime sparkles in the pool— in the streetspapers and leaves are chasedwith resentment. Kiwi begins to shine and throb—the juice unsullied and glazed. I love you like the sharp tangof fermentation, like blissful pulp,oozing, bittersweet. We linger after dinner, vaguelytalking— spellboundby the intermittent noise of dishes. (Lines from: Ramón López Velarde, Víctor Terán, Coral Bracho and Octavio Paz)

foodverses:

Cento for Jovitas
 
Surrounded by coming and going aromas,
cinnamon eyes celebrate.
A marriage of substances—
they are this night, this music.
 
Slime sparkles in the pool— in the streets
papers and leaves are chased
with resentment.
 
Kiwi begins to shine and throb—
the juice unsullied and glazed.
 
I love you like the sharp tang
of fermentation, like blissful pulp,
oozing, bittersweet.
 
We linger after dinner, vaguely
talking— spellbound
by the intermittent noise of dishes.
 
(Lines from: Ramón López Velarde, Víctor Terán, Coral Bracho and Octavio Paz)

foodverses
foodverses:

Torchy’s Tacos
The trailer park simmers— Mr. Pink slices strips of darkness by the crossroads. A ranch hand scrambles, marinating in trashy love, wedged between Jamaican breasts. Republican jerks scratch dirty puppies, drinking before breakfast. Sanchez brushes against her skirt, shredding tender fires. Saturday’s treats dip Into delicious choices— sugar or chocolate monks or Democrats hot or slow roasted.

foodverses:

Torchy’s Tacos

The trailer park simmers—
Mr. Pink slices
strips of darkness
by the crossroads.

A ranch hand scrambles,
marinating in trashy
love, wedged between
Jamaican breasts.

Republican jerks scratch
dirty puppies, drinking
before breakfast.

Sanchez brushes
against her skirt,
shredding tender fires.

Saturday’s treats dip
Into delicious choices—
sugar or chocolate
monks or Democrats
hot or slow roasted.

foodverses
foodverses:

Elizabeth Street Cafe
It was all pink bubbles—evening forgets troubles, sometimesthey dissolve in his eyes. Noodles twirl between rhymes like strandsof stray hair in her hands. Hot broth warms, the crowd stands and waits,a chef perfects his plates.A macaroon creates surprise,beautiful in bite size— nutty flavors reprise and shine.The finale divine—a glass of rosé wine doubles.

foodverses:

Elizabeth Street Cafe

It was all pink bubbles—
evening forgets troubles, sometimes
they dissolve in his eyes.
Noodles twirl between rhymes like strands
of stray hair in her hands.
Hot broth warms, the crowd stands and waits,
a chef perfects his plates.
A macaroon creates surprise,
beautiful in bite size—
nutty flavors reprise and shine.
The finale divine—
a glass of rosé wine doubles.

foodverses
foodverses:


Blue Dog Pizza
In places like these, the Christmas lights will always stay upyear round— framing bare trees in fuzzy reddish glowing.Wishes are wrapped in Gouda and basil and star clouds.He only likes talking about what is happening now.I only like talking about what’s happened before.He asks questions I don’t or won’t answer…except for one about the old man and hismotorbike parked in the tree shadows.I say that this might be the last decentmeal we eat on this too long street.Sometimes there are blue dogs.There are always wet dogs.Pine nuts love pineapple.Bacon loves coconut.Apple loves soda.Pluto lovespizza.

foodverses:

Blue Dog Pizza

In places like these, the Christmas lights will always stay up
year round— framing bare trees in fuzzy reddish glowing.
Wishes are wrapped in Gouda and basil and star clouds.
He only likes talking about what is happening now.
I only like talking about what’s happened before.
He asks questions I don’t or won’t answer…
except for one about the old man and his
motorbike parked in the tree shadows.
I say that this might be the last decent
meal we eat on this too long street.
Sometimes there are blue dogs.
There are always wet dogs.
Pine nuts love pineapple.
Bacon loves coconut.
Apple loves soda.
Pluto loves
pizza.

foodverses
foodverses:

A List of Things David Should Not Have Said at Fair Bean Coffee
When you called me immature because I don’t pick up after myself, you should’ve thought twice— because you sound like my mother and no one wants to make out with their mother.
Or you shouldn’t have told me that my hair would look better a few shades lighter— because what is that line of bull we are taught as children about liking people the way they are or for who they are or whatever?
And maybe telling me that I should get out of debt was completely unnecessary. Because, at thirty-five, I am pretty sure I am very aware of all of the bad things that can and will   result from a poor credit score.
Also, explaining to me for the hundredth time the ways in which I am ruining my hair: blow-drying (which I don’t even do), washing daily (which I don’t even do), not conditioning every day, touching it, etc… is perhaps not the best way to begin brunch.
And you totally should not have exclaimed, “whoa that’s a lot of sugar,” as I scooped spoonfuls into my coffee, passing judgment on my sugaring habits. Because, despite what you think, “whoa,” implies judgment and is not simply an observation.

foodverses:

A List of Things David Should Not Have Said at Fair Bean Coffee

When you called me immature
because I don’t pick up after myself,
you should’ve thought twice— because
you sound like my mother and no one
wants to make out with their mother.

Or you shouldn’t have told me that my hair
would look better a few shades lighter—
because what is that line of bull we are
taught as children about liking people the way
they are or for who they are or whatever?

And maybe telling me that I should
get out of debt was completely unnecessary.
Because, at thirty-five, I am pretty sure
I am very aware of all of the bad things
that can and will result from a poor credit score.

Also, explaining to me for the hundredth time
the ways in which I am ruining my hair:
blow-drying (which I don’t even do),
washing daily (which I don’t even do),
not conditioning every day, touching it, etc…
is perhaps not the best way to begin brunch.

And you totally should not have exclaimed,
“whoa that’s a lot of sugar,” as I scooped
spoonfuls into my coffee, passing judgment
on my sugaring habits. Because, despite
what you think, “whoa,” implies judgment
and is not simply an observation.