Dali at the Deli
Two pounds of spicy sausage
He takes a number waits and remembers eating
The flesh of another organism
considering its relationship
to time a kind of entity
Mostly wasteful he orders pigs’ feet
and decides to practice the ritual of painting
stroking oneself with pagan color
The butcher wipes his burly hands
on an apron white a canvas opens
cows, pigs, a baby lamb
the picture gets sharper
and sharper until the image is reborn
with heat
The animal tastes alive again once mounted
to a wall under a word
Resurrection
+
For Mrs. Hillary Clinton
In the Nietzschean tomorrow, you are a hemorrhage,
a marriage of silkscreens that show Jackie grieving
and silver screens of Nancy kissing, two women
who demurred when asked intellectual questions,
preferring and perverting the notion of feminine
etiquette and spousal responsibility, placing
a napkin over the female thighs that have suffered
certain circulatory issues, having had them crossed for so long.
In that same vain, I understand a dress made of blue, the scandal
of not admitting that this nation has had questionable relations
with the element of truth, why the bible with a man’s hand on it
means nothing more than a choreographed wave to the Masses,
the missions, the monasteries, and the movie makers that
might one day provide you with a cartel of freshly-cut roses,
unprecedented petals that announce your presidential grin,
stylishly laughing at how many men care to send their most
fragrant apology.
