poetry tends to run
down the side of my spoon
like creamy vegetable soup
full of chickendiction
and celerysyntax
with a bit of anchoalliteration
for flavor.

poetry tends to tingle
inside my nostrils as each
ingredient clamors for my
undivided attention. so i consider
the oregano as the tomato slides
     down
          my
               throat
to consult with the garlic.

poetry tends to compartmentalize
on command in order that the
answer may be found to questions
like “what is the real meaning behind
vegetable soup?”
but is soups still soup
if everything is
                on the side?

04/29/2004

Author's Note: so here is the story behind this one: our assignment tonight in english was to write an ars poetica (poem about poetry) poem, and i had to work tonight. i work at the brooklyn cafe and tonight i was hostessing, and in my spare time, i wrote this. i guess you could say i was influenced by my surroundings?

Posted on 04/30/2004
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