November 30, 2008

Eat Me and Die

While I'm busy writing up a mimosa-infused Thanksgiving post, I'll leave you with a delightful poem written by Flagstaff writer (and "hardcore libertarian"), Dan Heller. When Dan is not busy expressing his love for free market capitalism, you can find him falling in love with Che Guevara in the mountains of Flagstaff, Arizona. Enjoy his spicy-tongued poem!

Eat Me and Die

It’s burning me like a hot pepper,
Because I am one,
On the grill

Smoking these small plumes
Of hot fruit
Or are we vegetables?

A collection, an assortment
We are,
Each with her own juicy tail

From which we used to hang
On our mothers’ limbs,
That old dusty tree

In the middle of nowhere
Before Mr. Mexican came,
And plucked us off her land

Like grapes or oranges,
Only we don’t sour,
Spicy veggie fruit, we are!

No touchy! Beware!
I’ll burn your tongue,
Or scratch your eyes as your nose sizzles

Until they bleed,
And cluster,
And rot

As our poor mother did,
Once we left her,
To be outside in cold desert

Molested by foreign hands,
Those that cradled us,
And nourished our green baby bottoms

Some of us red or yellow
Some of us seedy
Some of us not

But if you dare to eat us,
To select us from the market—district of red and green lights,
To slice us up in two or three and rip out our insides and make them hollow

To fill us with cheese,
Sometimes white and creamy
Sometimes cram us with cheese that’s clumpy like Feta

To wrap us in bacon or poke us with sticks
Alcoholic toothpicks to hold us together
After being ripped apart

We will all scream!
Collectively! An organized union!
As our red skins sizzle and smoke and drop

Into the pan of the summer grill’s bottom
Until you swallow us whole
Lick our dried lips by the limbs Momma used to swing us

As we swim down your dark throats
Together, now, all as one
With cheese and bacon and taste-bud riots

In your dark stomach
We shall still shriek
And bite you right back

Because we are voluptuous peppers
Jalapenos of smiles and moonlit night
Shadows and curves of Latina color

We spice you well below the South
We, too, can give you color and turn your face yellow
With red or green tears that will never dry up

Consume us as we sear
On this black grill
Burning sweat of fire

And we will be blessed
Choke you with spite
As our spices kill you

We shall live forever .


Jada Ach said...

Is it just me, or is this poem SCREAMING for a class revolution?! Dan, you little socialist...

Hadley Gets Crafty said...

Dude, I asked Greg to mail the recipes, as I was leaving for KY and didn't have time. He got all busy and FORGOT. I'm the most irresponsible swap host ever. Never fear, though. The recipes are coming... Geez.