Lunch Revelations Poem by Jun Tae Park

Crash sound past 2 o’nine
I open the oven, and see:
two waxed men in a bird suit
Jump out and go fly
One looks old and one looks fine
the younger one flies quite high

Oldy tries to pull the other down,
screams that he is close to
Fire, the dire wrath of
the red spaghetti meatball lad
I realize the man is no chicken;
He is an old fungus
tepid and decrepitude ridden
rotten, dark, scared years in the labyrinth

Drum beat, two twenty nine
a faltering wound
an inclose sigh
I see him fall,
I see him die
The italian plate wins;
It’s bloody topping dripping
over Young bird mans wings

It is not the heat of oven that
bleeds the half cooked chicken,
but the hesitant words of this overaged
mushroom that leads youth to it’s knees

Honor the old mushroom
venerate his wisdom
commemorate his spirit,
in dance and song and beer
For the young fried one,
his legacy will be of death,
his arrogant hubris shadowing,
any memory of nulling will.

as black as barbecue chicken
as triumphant as barbecue chicken
as I stared at this dead tomatoed algae lad,
It seemed to ask:
would you rather die a proud chicken than live a rotten fungus?

I could not answer
for often obviousness, far-off and vague
like ice, melts with proximity and age
Alas, I embraced reality;
the long delayed dose of maturity,
slit his accusing throat and
put him inside the oven
made chicken spaghetti,

delicious and silent.