Thursday, December 24, 2009

He Sank his Teeth into his Soup

He sank his teeth into the soup;
it tasted rich but wasn’t what he needed,
wasn’t what he wanted,
he needed steak or a sharp carrot stick
to bite into, to chew,

incisors cutting, tongue lashing,
molars grinding it down
until the tough words, sentences,
hitting the anxious palate
were analyzed and shaken, blended, swallowed
with a gulp; it’s then
down go ideas
such smooth ideas,
each one so simple in its cocktail blend
so right, so heady.

He needed that participation,
not pap served in a golden bowl
and sipped, so civil, with a spoon.

His teeth and tongue are still alive
and must be keen like eyes and ears
and sharpened by a critic’s sting.

He sank his teeth into his soup
and said politely, this tastes great,
but all the time he longed for steak
with mustard, pepper, and a knife
to spear each word and then attack
the cook or critic pouring
dry Champagne.

LRH 3.19.09

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