My Meat Tribe Kicks
In the time of the chicken sandwich race wars our chins bob in polyrhythmic
mastications of fry-grilled flesh our de-pewed asses glide along the booth we
unwrap the secret recipe and finish that thought about the sermon and soon
the tape will come down from the liquor isle – break bread, break bread –
and praise fuckin God that we still can’t tell our neighbors apart even now
especially now with the kids all grown up in amber waves of Baptist spawn
and everywhere in repatriated khaki unanimity this blessed thought that
breaks the bread and the more broken the more blessed because it took a
lot of good money and bad timing to prove that medicine is less perfect than
faith and this prayer for sugar and for salt ricochets from lip to tooth until
the good white meat gives with a numb but feelingful tug that is the first
among bites that reveres truth that rewards fiction that slicks our
bottomless tongues with contentment for a moment again sometimes.
Bland Smith is an Albuquerque based writer and composer. Bland’s short fiction has previously appeared in Daily Science Fiction and Sanitarium magazine, albeit under the name Bland associates with his day job. This is Bland’s first published poem.
Beaver Magazine 