Hog

there is no wrong way to eat
a hot dog there is no right
to eat a dog there is no hot
dog hot popsicle of pig
meat slathered in existential
ketchup bread-claustrophobic

*

         once on a drive home from Central Catholic
         I stopped at the Dairy Queen Drive-Thru
                 and asked for hot dog wrapped in lettuce
                 I was more hypochondriac at sixteen
                 than at thirty-two anyway the kid
                 at the window said they couldn’t
                 but I insisted and the manager
                 smuggled the long sizzling dog in wet
                 lettuce I carry that shame in the trash
                 bag of my trunk to this day

*

        pig meat
                       pig meat
                                       in a sleeping bag of green

*

        there is no way to eat a dog
        there are ways to eat a hot dog
             I am a bog I am the bog I am
breakfast lunch dinner brunch midnight snack
  everlasting bun communion holy
water life I down through days and lick my fingers
after rough vigorous handwashing
               I’ve opened plastic package
               set skillet to flame
               lain logs on drizzled oil

*

                       the celebrity chef in my mind
is me I documented cooking when I lived
in my car. That was my true potential. Oh, swine,
               you’re years beyond capable
yet I drove halfway across the country
to do what competitors do, which is down
hundreds of you. Joey Chestnut the undisputed
master after decades of dogs.

*

                    Went to a dollar dog minor
                    league game twenty cents per dog flies
                    buzzing in orbit of condiments
                    five the limit at the window so all
                could see I had the buns. One each for
                     STRENGTH. ACCEPTANCE.
                        CONFIDENCE. GRACE.
                                   AMBITION.

*

One inning was all
it took and I was alone in my new
                        city full of my father’s love
                        of baseball and barbecues. Now
                        there was an undisputed grill master.
                        Everyone knows one. I am not one.
                        There is no way to cook.
                        There is a way.
               Wayne was over and we flicked
               lit matches with our middle fingers
               from thumbs into ready
               charcoal to get the grill going.
We walked away and waited for
an action-movie explosion
but there was no ignition.

*

                                                                                     My whole life I have been walking
                                                                                     away, not turning back to look.

 

Hamburglar

I’d do anything

for a cheeseburger

after a hangover

 

rob a bank of beef patties

to settle my beer belly

 

drive through suburbs

shooting holes

in the ozone

 

fingerguns pointed

in the ubiquitous direction

of hunger

 

my consumption

would satiate a hamlet

 

I drink

each excess

down

 

as Ronald

desires me to do

 

did you see the videos

 

pink slime resurrected

as hamburger Lazarus

 

but if I won the jackpot

I know a Big Mac

would be my first meal

 

golden arches

a chorus of mmms

echoing through cortex

 

processed organs

replacing orgasms

 

is that on the dollar menu