you were once
a pig
a living,
breathing,
organism

but now
all you are
is a ham
a single slice
of processed deli meat

on your own,
not nearly enough
to ever
be *satisfied

she reads meat
eyes in a meeting
persistent of the trysts of leather
her steady trap-door arose
in her deposition
the latitude of her nubile degrees
Procrastinates his step,
Subtly overdubbing the scrawny pallid ache
In the etch'd skin, her color-by-numbers comes undone.

Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******* clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?

And for a moment I'm a gazelle
who hasn't yet fallen
to a lion's teeth
For the night I give in
to the stampede
and--this time for good--keep going

Going, going,
wind beaten as a sailor,
though I may be
flying the way a peacock does
(It's only a feeling, like peace is to a dove)

Let me say something
about the animals--
they keep going, too
They keep going for us
(I am no vegetarian, but sometimes,
instead of meat, I only need
to eat dust.)

For the same reason, I go on
until fed to something larger
than this small person inside
And, like an animal, I don't ever
feel the need to cry

Like tigers scratching over scraps,

The fat cats posture and hiss

Over who gets the favoured meat

From the cows nervously

Chewing the cud, scuffing their hooves,

Pacing the green and pleasant hills,

No longer fooled by the purring soothe.

Each tiger takes a swipe,

Claws trailing blood lines

Over fatted flanks of meat

Of the cows hiding

In their homes, in their fields,

Pacing the mud that replaced the trees,

Not picked for need, instead for yield.

The fat cats grow full on our flesh.

I hope they choke on it.

Get it while it’s fresh.

What are we so scared of?
We are just bags of blood and bones,
in a rotating assembly line,
hanging side by side
smacking against each other
as lightly as possible,
so as not to puncture
our delicate vessels.
Don't we know?
Words are what
spill our guts.

As fridge-rator to beer in the head between the ears adorned with flashy widgets with which to trap the hoes he hopes that he can pull into his poles. His gravity whips wide so hands find and feel up erthing that gots the tail, he wants to rail so hands out he walks and tilts to one side and back holding his glass. ******* limp around the rim, dipping his fingertips into the juice like he wants to dip into you, pinkies as he holds your head forcing you to **** like you want his come as much as he wants to come. Then when done zips up, runs out, "***** sayonara", switch rerun mode without emotion. He floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

Head on the couch back making tired, one eye open scoping everyone's glow as they move, when up he comes sittin in my face, spittin what he thinks I want him to say, I'm like, "****, guy control that tongue, you spray like that always I'm afraid I won't take that wild ****, as tool is to you as to yo *****." Right ******* ****** spittin harder in the lean up perhaps the lead up to fist flung to react. "Man you too loose, I gotta tell you, I've got just what you do." "Your uh ******?" Man watch ya flavor of language, I got just enough ****** left to get hard and stomp you, heel first in boots bought to stomp, pre-emptive to deal with the bullwhip effect where first you droolin to **** me, then retract like a bowstring because my ***** resembles a ****. "What you want, *****? You wan **** this **** for real?" (For real?) He floatin. He floatin. He floatin the room, he ghosting.

Lick my lips, cept it's not a tongue. For this purpose it's strobe lights, in light show, and like snow, black and white between sheets of plastic TV screen on get settled into my flow, rip back and forth like prongs on a fork on your ******* blindfolded and scolded right angle, bent like an L-shape repenting for **** by taking the ******, flash cards, held up on headboards, trying to teach you metrics and standards lacking in you to tune you into the lifestream, no empathy and no tact to show, remember this hell well while you sail through life preying, I'm praying and making marks in meat coats. But he floatin. He floatin. He gloatin.

It is early Sunday morning
at St. Luke's Hospital. In the maternity ward.,

Where I adored this beautiful face ---
What a wonderful, amazing, astonishing place.,
With such a pretty smile and face.,

Before I could cry out to your pretty face.,
An angel in a blue coat took you from our place.,

I began to cry out:
Where are you taking this pretty face?

I cried, cried and cried.,

Next. The angel in the blue coat. Took me from our place.
Can this angel be taking me back to your pretty face?

But no!

This angel took me to another pretty face.,
Everyone kept calling this pretty face, “Mommy, mommy, mommy...”

For the next twenty-three years.,
While I did my growing and learning.,
Mommy was my only pretty face.,

It is early Sunday morning at,
St. Luke's Presbyterian Church.,
Sitting there, in the church pew.,
I see a pretty face.,
I cry out, “Have I ever met you in another place?”,
The second day we met!



© 2012 - 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.