4/30: Orange Cascades

“In such an iconoclastic city, even the fine dining is

                Punk Rock.”

Diner rankings for the uninitiated,

                Splash dashed across
Pages, clickable meanings.

                An incisive piece of

Journalism on why we’ve yet to overtake

                Paris when it comes to omelettes.

                When I went on the “date” with the chef

From Michigan who was happy that Seattle was

                Finally Coming Up, I for a moment

Pictured myself in 24 hour sport coats, cutting small portions

                Into tiny ones, with a variety of serrated

Blades, laughing conversations about lesser airports

                of the world, all thick framed glasses and

the server’s white button down rolled up to

                Reveal their Black Flag tattoo and

Hip hop instrumentals swirling over every $200 plate.

               

The dueling concept of what food even means: “Has the art gone out of
Farm to table dining? Three top chefs chat about the dumbing down
Of artisan culture.”

“Five spots for lunch under $10.”

"Three cans of beans for a dollar-- coupon inside."

We went  on another date, and one aborted attempt at late night

                Paths crossing, her in her chef’s uniform,

I think our buses literally passed eachother. When she talked about

                Her plans for clams, I thought about the

Orange Soda in my fridge, and even brought it up. “What, you got it like a

                Joke? So inside. So Seattle.” Sure, I guess.

I was confused. She held her fork like an heiress.

              But on her profile all it said was Porn, Punk, and Pizza.

You'd Think. . .(koreatrip #4)

that in a city like Suwon, next to an international hotel, there would be at least ONE place selling postcards. Cheap, tacky postcards. That I can send to friends, enemies and loved ones.

This, so far, has not been my experience. In further minor frustrations, my camera battery is dead, rendering the picture uploadery I was hoping for undoable at this time. In four hours I'll be on a bus, with the rest of the WBC team, to the countryside, where the real meat of english-teaching will begin.

In the meantime, packing, church, coffee, attempting not to slip into food coma simply from the residual hospitality of the last three days.

A Poem For, But Not About, Breakfast (11/30)

The egg carton is down to three already; the slow pillage has begun.

Ten minutes in any direction from a reliable source of protein,
his car breaks down. A thread from the uphostered ceiling
detatches, grazes his nose. His face salts up the steering wheel while his
stomach pulls uppercuts and starts mocking.

why are you hitting yourself? why are you hitting yourself?

The juice is tasting vinegary, but we are not sure; that may
just be because it is organic.

His phone crunches and buzzes out beneath his boot. Instantly
indistinguishable from the surrounding pebbles and weeds. He
does not regret this destruction of a false hope; relatives did not answer,
the local parish was pre-recorded and AAA is a cruel myth told to children.

They wander around, opening cupboards and closing them
and opening them again just in case. One person takes a dirty spoon
off the counter and thrusts it into an open jar of peanut butter, scraping, digging.

By this time, he thinks, he could have just walked to a store,
but how would he heft the bags, squishing shifting with irritating
plastic sounds, all the way back to the house, what is ten minute drive
in walking time? It is too late now, staring at the ground, driver's side open,
a lone truck passes but does not stop, a lovers-bearing convertible
does the same. Everything he thought he knew about human kindness . . .

Where is he? One of them asks, taking off their shoe? He was supposed
to be back by now. This is not enough eggs. The other smears bacon grease
all up and down the last piece of bread and divides it amongst
us like a miracle. We are far past breakfast time now.

The cars on the highway pass more frequent now, one even stops
but he waves them on. It is too late. His car will rust right there on the
yellow line. He holds his face, even when the state-mandated towers
latch their hooks to the bumper; reckless endangerment and a guilty plea sounding like:

all I wanted
were some real hand-smoked links.
breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know.

5 years and she'll own the place; mother will be very disappointed.

They don't serve SANDWICHES in HELL, JACk!

She slammed the french-dip-daily special so hard on the counter the plate cracked. A few straws shuddered in their glasses. Au jus everywhere. As she clomped her shoes-for-crews regulation heels to the room's end, Jimmy the cook started a slow clap. Alfonse turned from the order he was taking and nodded. More claps as Jack balled his fists and swivel-headed to see where to swing. Half the room was in applause. Defeated, he dove mustacheward into soggy meatbread.

Everyone had pegged her as summer-breeze slight; the sort of pixie-do-ed flower tattoo cranked out yearly in the thousands by creative writing and graphic design programs. No one thought she had it in her, so they were surprised when next she headlocked Mary, and with a . . . we're going to finish this TONIGHT, bitch. . . dragged her outside.

Back at the 'rents

what’d they say to the dove in the cage
the first time they put the blanket over the bars
for the night, turned the light out
and went to bed?

Its not a bad life, food, water, mandatory sleeping hours.
Some never get enough of any,
And damned if I’m going to turn this
Into some sort of metaphor for peace or freedom.

Sometimes I get awakened by hammers
At eight in the morning, the deck my parents
have been waiting for for years finally
getting its nails in.
I think brief thoughts about dutch-protestant
work ethic and the value of patience
as I pull a pillow over my head
And wait until they’re done
To coffee and jobsearch, unshaven.

There are rot-blackened bananas hanging from
the fruithook and I think my sisters did not eat
all their oatmeal. This could be something about waste

But I predict banana bread.