involved in the local restaurant scene have lost our minds.
Same goes for the poetry scene.
Same goes for love.
Let's not even mention politics.
The places to eat that I like best
are imperfect.
Same goes for poetry (and art, at large).
Same goes for love.
Life is imperfect, perfectly,
so these things should reflect the chaos,
embrace the heartbreak challenge.
Lost, as we are, what this gives
me (and you and anyone reading this crap)
is something more, something new:
entry not only to a cuisine,
but also to a part of life
we wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to know
if it weren't for these purely beautiful imperfections.
I don't know about you,
but I don't need a Michelin-starred restaurant
or perfect cadence and captivity of slam and academia poetry.
Sure, I would love to try these things, eat them up,
but even the best looking gal I've ever slept with
was bad in bed and boring at parties.
as my back-of-the-house amigos say,
I want more blood, I want more life.
Give me all of love's letdowns.
Give me street meat from Muhammad's cart on 85th and 2nd.
Give me poetry that sits in my heart and stomach
like a wriggling wound that moves me for years
instead of performance that leaves
after I leave the venue to get drunk.