Cold Pasta


How does dead skin taste
I repeated back
laughter muffled
like the smothered homeless
to officer shiny pants.
His partner, vomit-ridden
with us both
for illusory discrepancies
crimes against humanity
omnivorous and blatant
on the green porcelain plate.

Like cold rigatoni
I said
and it turned out to be
too simple a metaphor
too easily grasped
and the shiny pants smile
quizzical, indifferent, numb

transmogrified

because now . . .
now
now
they tasted that rigor mortis pasta
like I did.

And just like that
significant others will wonder
what’s wrong with their simple Italian dishes.

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One thought on “Cold Pasta

  1. Thank you SO MUCH for my complete nausea–about the contents (gag!) of the poem and that perfectly disgusting picture–not about the poem itself. I think you are writing better and better poems. It’s as though you are “letting loose”–and that’s wonderful.

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