The Kitchen Failure Poem by michael pacholski

Oh I can cook up a poem,
but I'm hell with meatloaf.
Give me lovers
frozen and alone.
Give me the rituals of mythmaking
the verse-operas of Daedalus or thePhoenix
or some such “literary” other.
So staid I am in my claim
I don't know what to make of spices
or fruits and vegetables.
Indeed! what of the Bake-a-lite
or the rotisserie oven?
Do such things melt wings
and make their wearers crash to earth
in the human story of failure
redemption, striving?
Can I speak of frozen love
with the burning edges
of a piece of cinnamon toast?
Does heartache reside in a singed crumb?

What can be done with artichokes
that Neruda hasn't already done or Lagasse?
I find mine disposable, and my stomach
empties itself in agreement.
Unlike Pablo I do not think of love
beloved socialism or equality
when considering their flavor.
I merely think it is not a good idea
to cook food with the word 'choke' in the name.
That sad joke leaves a hollow space.
Who am I to laugh who can barely light an oven?
I who cannot prepare a simple dish
like tilapia and lemon butter
let alone reach the soul of such a thing.
Flavors of love and life I will never understand
no matter how thoroughly
correctly and painstakingly prepared
to satisfy appetite or god of appetite