You are not the lamps aglow over the buffet. They say you’re made of heat, but you’re made of Nilla wafers. You are near the meal ticket on the edge. Have you seen the apple crisp and can I get a brisket. Flesh of jiggles, flesh that’s dried. Hallelujah butter glisten. Cornbread dressing and fried tilapia and macaroni and chickpea salad. Taco shells and caramel pudding and mystery spare ribs and parmesan butter and Slurpee rotisseries. Yellow Jell-O and croutons and carrot cake and platters and tryptophan and breaded shrimp and carving knives and coffee and porn mirrors and steamed carrots and cold french fries and au jus and chorn cowder. Salad tossers and nervous managers and pizza sausage and sauerkraut and collard greens and root bear floats and refill buckets and soda orchards and yam goop and pickled beets and nuked peppers and ice chunks and oversized football jerseys and navy beans and oh excuse me lima beans and pinto beans and soft serve and cottage cheese and creamy pea salad milk and hump fish and squaddle donk and cunt sneezes and little cherry smack ‘em yorps and badonkadonk roast and ass cheese and waddle gum and squinty mints and cousin hate and fiber pudding and gelatin and burble bop and allergy sweepstakes and flavor shapes and puke soap and oil scrape and Brillo noodles and detergent water and high falutin’ corn syrup and rubber staplers and grease condoms and giant fried monster truck tires and barbecued nostalgia and eat ‘em up, it’s food! it’s food! it’s food! it’s food and food and food! it’s food and food and food and food and food and food and food! food and food and food and food and food and food and food! and food and food and foody food, foody foody food! What, are you afraid of food? God is not the you that’s ever uttered here. This means you when this says you. You and you and you. You’re no God at all because you want to feel things. You are not the parking lot outside of all the food, in which we see a helicopter. Wait is there a fire. No look, it’s got an air conditioner. Well! Fuck my holy shit.
Mike Young is the author of Look, Look, Feathers! (stories) and We Are All Good if They Try Hard Enough (poems).