I was going to write a poem
but where do you start to depart
from fact to Facebook fiction
from the fact that your kitchen
deviates from the public depiction
of a culinary nest of delight
rather it resembles scrambled
celebrity scroungers of the night
with the delicate aroma
of napalm in the morning
Would you have chosen the same
if you had known? Blown by the winds
of change and dissatisfaction.
A little goat’s milk, perhaps
some hard boiled eggs.
Would you take direction
from those who would document
your campaign or refrain
from hot sauce and hot topics
to settle for some corned beef?
Would it be a release, a relief
to know of your ultimate consumption?
Sit me up, turn me loose
the proof is in the pudding.
the jericho roads 