Julia’s Child

There it is, just as we left it
yesterday, or was it a week?
Regardless there it is, perched
as it were, majestic fowl perched
layered under a sheen of charcoal...

First attempt at doing so large a bird
me and my friends that is, not my
family, they were up in Canada, I was
up some sauce from La Canada, sweet
and sour as I recall. She was real, too.

Anyways we all had this thing about reality.
You know, escape from old pork, just Yidding,
although Miss. Cohen always took it, seeressly.
So anyways this Turk keyed into our plans,
turning away the alternatives like flapjacks
sticking to the sooty roof of a Kentucky cabin,
ahhh! That’s so cute I’d like to insert glass shards
in the piece meal bastard that miscarriaged that one.

Wait a minute, no two and a half hours basting every
twenty minutes until browned, ah fuck it why not
just shove that icecube in the melter until we feel
it’s done cooking through osmosis, I like it I do I do.
Out to the slow death room to guzzle the kegs in
anticipation of our youthful bodies grinding slow
and impotent, trying to enjoy life ill conceived,
baiting each compliment with threats of desertion.

Oh somewhere between three or four hours later
it dawned on me to go baste the turkey so in
go I towards the beating fart of gas trying
to escape the devouring flames to no avail.
Yipes, crimminy, ratsputin on da walls, me
in deep shit now, there it was my domestic
failure glaring in it’s inadequacy, terrible.

Black as the engine of a pinto, skin made charcoal
pink as the anus on a newborn, flesh raw n bloody.
Ughh, no way we gonna eat this shit! Lift that puppy
up and out from it’s steaming mother, over to be
unceremoniously dumped on a stack of dirty plates
on top of the unused dishwasher. Oh well lets order
pizza. Somebody covered it with a shroud to be
forgotten. Or so we thought. (Play scary music here!)

Weeks later we found that bad boy by tracing
a particularly unsavory yet maddening familiar
scent to it’s source. There on top of the china
can’t you see it, there, it’s moving! It’s moving!
Yep, damn maggots churning in a froth of their own
juices, just like coupling mammals naked and forlorn.