From the kitchens where the gas is kept
beloved are the blues shining my shoulder
old potholes knotted by masking the work.
What I need for morning escapes as steam,
night groaning over into a spume of dawn.
To prepare a meal before the next sunrise
meant risking everything to write it down.
Down the big halls through rivers & woods
are devils cradled in an old palace of deals.
Windbag so loud a people gets saturated
on while we soothe a bisque of whispers.
Electric stoves won’t get the job done but
if that’s all you got—we can downlink fire,
like two dense stars shifting the dark fields
confronting desolation 130 billion years ago.
But the recipe (in theory) is pretty simple.
What it takes is a relish for a new undoing
eventually you’ll get what you set out to do.
Stone soup: also known as politicians wheel.
A hypogeal bone forged by Black Sisypheans
who were smart enough to realize when they
reached the top of their blinking mountain
all they had to do was step aside and the rest
would take care of itself.