Saturday, February 14, 2015

BACON MEDITATION

Rambunctious, punctilious,
flying 
off the handle—

come Saturday morning—they'll all stand a little

transfixed—stainless, big 
doe-eyed, bare-
footed, bright, and single-

mindedly beholding—the flickering 

blue light;
warm,
present, and

alive—to the visceral sizzle 

and concentrated 
smell—invited by
such horrible, 

humble, and crucial pure animal 

fat—as it drools outward
from each 
and every little

peel—of the brave thing 

you're sacrificing—faith-
fully, mind-
fully, deft, sure, and vestment-

clad, 
as usual—there in your lovely 
wife's dead-

from-a-heart-
attack, wise, old, 
great grand-

daddy's favorite—cast iron pan.

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