by James Jarvis
02/10/02
At Greenfield's
one of my friends tells me
for $19 a plate
you sit at a red blocked table,
dine on the salad bar,
then turn the block over to green
and the waiters begin the meatfest,
bringing to your table
a slice of every species:
hot and cold running meat.
I wanna go there
and devour the planet,
then I wanna eat Lebanese,
auuuughmmmmmmm,
roasted chicken in garlic butter,
auuuughmmmmmmm,
hummus,
auuuughmmmmmmm,
tabouli,
auuuughmmmmmmm,
cooscoos.
My roommate just walked in and announced,
grumbling under his breath:
E.R gets on my nerves.
Huh? I ask.
The production company, he answers.
What about it? I ask.
They work ya but they feed ya good.
With that said,
my roommate turns
and walks back into his room of concealed treats
his room of hidden bags of potato chips
and secreted cans of peanuts.
He must have been reading
my hungry mind,
reading it through his bedroom wall,
one of the many walls that separates us.
He must have heard
through half a foot of wood and plaster
my stomach rumbling thoughts,
and that's why he came out
to check on me
to make sure his junk food booty
(hidden in the closet
and under his bed
and under his pillow
and in his boots
his hidden horn of plenty)
was safe
from my ravenous mind.
Tags: big fish, fish head, ravenous mind, meat eater, poem, jolie blond, marquisdejolie, spoken word
I like it! Made me look up Green Field and get so sad that I can't go soon! Haha, I hide junk food in my room too.
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