"brisket" poems
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).
still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.
here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."
but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."
I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?
"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.
"mazel tov," I say.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
This Day, two Biped Ponies each of you ride,
Strolling along the lane Lovers enjoy
To watch this Sweet Scene from way far behind,
A Cheque I'd like to cash-in this Friday
Yes, for Pence-Tales of Romance and Success
Thinking to Follow is easy enough
How many, do those Squirrels squeak at-less
The Time which Currency states on the Rough
I guess Luck's Fair in Friendship does depend
On a Brisket-List sorted in custom
To where each of you in Common does spend,
Well, better than sulk out of sheer boredom.
The Bullseye's paid, admitting my Defeat,
Licking my own Fab's whilst hugging the Street.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
Through her eyes I see her soul,
And the sadness when they roll,
Her nose as black as coal,
Though sweet as a baby foal,
She has teeth like broken china,
And a tongue like a pink recliner,
Her face like a piece of art,
That was crafted from the heart,
She has ears like paper origami,
That could hear a foreign tsunami,
Her neck forms an arch,
Like a piece of twisted larch,
Her brisket is as deep as the sea,
And holds the lock to my key,
Her legs like a vintage chair,
That walks with grace and care,
She has a body built for speed,
When running she takes the lead,
Her heart races like a lambaguini,
Although It might seem quite teeny,
Her muscles tense like a fierce stallion,
Like an athlete ready to win a medallion,
Her body is so aerodynamic,
When she runs she makes the wind panic,
Her tail swooshes from side to side,
As she holds her head in great pride,
Her coat as black as leather,
And as soft as a ducks feather,
It shimmers like a stream,
When the sun makes it gleam,
Her little dashes of white,
Are oh so pure and bright,
Never will I feel of despair,
Cause I know my best friend is there!!!
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
My dearest Rocky,
You were too old.
Too old to chase after that mischief of mice.
But you were not to be halted.
And in return,
Hind legs destroyed.
Cut up and sewn together
In crisscross fashion.
Once a lazy *******
Then a lethargic moribund mutt.
(But still a *******
On your last leg, (or two) in a literal sense.
You dumb dog.
You balding, simple-minded scoundrel.
Christmas came and Christmas went.
A feast of elegance at your disposal.
Any indulgence you desired.
We bequeathed, as a last goodbye.
Brisket, frozen cream, pastries and more.
Up until the day, our eyes became sore.
One last car ride- One last roar.
One last breeze through your jowls.
Your clacking stomps and palsy-walsy howls,
Echo even now when I walk through the door.
Now silent and still, turned to ash and dust
I hope you’re herding that memory of elephants,
And leading that pride of lions,
In your infinite dream.
And remembering those who you brought joy.
But especially,
The one who carried you
Upstairs to bed
Every night.
I love you still, and always will.
Good boy, ******* good boy.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Thursday at noon
hit the road
done for the week
lighten my load
Cold beers calling
out my name
party all weekend
call up the gang
BBQ brisket and ********
maybe fishing, or hit the dance hall
country music, turned way up loud
waiting on my woman, I make the call
I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play
All day Friday at the lake
****** Mary's mixed and ready
drop the boat in
and run it steady
Skiing and laughing
with some friends
watching the sun set
in the end
I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play
Saturday headed to the mountain
hunt some sheds, do some hiking
the air is clear and its cool
all of this is too my liking
Gather wood, for a fire tonight
to keep us warm as temperatures drop
jack and coke in my cup
listen to the fire pop
I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play
Sunday morning, driving home
taking our time, all alone
shady spot, all secluded
for work, time, I'll now atone
Blanket down, made of fleece
in the woods, afternoon delight,
no one sees
though the sun shines bright
I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and lets go play
Monday comes, back home again
mow the grass, take out the trash
fix the sink that, began to leak
this long weekend has been a dash
Monday night, on the couch
football game, as steaks grill
a long deep kiss, from my wife
long weekend ending thrill
I'm out till Tuesday
and that's ok
need a break from workdays
settle the mind and the soul
forget work and we did play
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
Turkey, stuffing
Mac and cheese
Ziti, mussels
collard greens
Cran sauce, ham hocks
Candied yams
Brisket, corn bread
Sizzling lamb
Stuffed shells, Sausage
Yellow rice
Chicken, mash potatoes
Pumpkin pies
All the food I had on my plate
Blessed and thankful that I ate
Knowing others don't have the same
But we shared, the needy came
Ate with us as own our kin
There was where new friendships begin
Giving back makes all feel good
Serving to our neighborhood
In our home, you're invited in
We pass the plate with you as kin
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
I wrote you a folk song, sister.
Think I’ll call it “Caroline,”
after your mama’s mama
and the way she’d
slow smoke a brisket
for fifteen hours,
slapping away at the jaw harp
and kicking chickens.
Man, she had heart.
Nate and I still swing down by Early’s mill
on these summer days away from work,
and hack our way through the rushes
with that Congolese machete
Daddy gave me for my tenth birthday
(the fringes remain intact).
Nate ran into trouble,
and is back in town
for a while.
I’d say it’s about time
we rosin up the horsehair
and saw away at some old gospel staples,
the same way we did
at the fiddle contests
two lifetimes ago,
when the mountain tunes lingered
in the morning mist
far beyond breakfast.
Back when the AT through hikers
crashed at our place and brought stories of the Great Trail.
Back when my daddy wore bellbottomed jeans
and could scale a rock like some sort of deity.
Back when Nate smashed Grammie’s mason jar
of flour all over the road
and got a good whoopin’.
Back when we’d dam up the creek
and dream up images for the trees.
Back when your mama’s mama
prayed to Jesus on our behalf,
and the stars still came out most nights.
Her redwood rosary still dangles
on the mirror by my Hank Williams shrine.
Yes, I wrote you a tune from the heart, sister,
where the memory wells
flow with water from a living rock.
I hope you like it.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:41 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Welcome to Franklin’s
You know how we do
Get on the line
If you want our barbeque
We open at eleven
And close when we are through
People from all over
Come here just like you
Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here
We sell brisket by the pound
So tell us what’s your pleasure
Put your money down
We have a scale to measure
It’s finger licking good
This we guarantee
If you ain’t tried it, you should
Are you listening to me?
Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here
A trip to Austin Texas
Ain’t nearly complete
Until you’ve been to Franklin’s
And had a bite to eat
We pride ourselves on barbeque
Unrivaled anywhere
It’s not bragging when it’s true
See we’re the best, I swear
We’ve become world famous
In the shortest amount of time
See we’ve only been open
Since two-thousand and nine
And we’re rated five stars
Number one in the Zagat
People drive miles in their cars
Just to be where we’re at
Welcome to Franklin’s
Pull yourself up a chair
It’s four or five hour wait
Just to get in here
Welcome to Franklin’s
You know how we do
Get on the line
If you want our barbeque
We open at eleven
And close when we are through
People from all over
Come here just like you
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
‘Twas a sultry night, when you solemnly inquired –
“Would you like to have a piece of meat?”
A conscientious vegan like myself, rarely required
such unwarranted delicacies to eat.
Startled as I was, to myself I reasoned:
” it’s not as if I indulge every day –
and if a prime rib beckons, so perfectly seasoned
then even I’m allowed to go astray ”
you proffered to me, a choicey cut
Yet I waited for the perfect buy-ins;
lean and trim, the steaks were high, but–
the deal was only for the tenderloins.
Alas dear reader, that is where I mistook
my desires for a saucy brisket,
for in truth it was that I fancied the cook
but such emotions to flourish – I couldn’t risk it.
To grill is a skill that must be honed –
To be well-done is indeed so rare!
the merriment came not from being T-boned
though it wasn’t half bad, to be rather fair.
And oh my dear you had me speared
upon your metaphorical spit,
and thus Impaled like kabobs I seared,
upon fires of desires that befit.
One such night, I denied myself a meal
thinking it to be fine and dandy
what did it matter, venison or veal
when in truth, I wasn’t really randy
To my shock, what I had thought was written-
as my appetite for fleshy delights,
was instead that I was undoubtedly smitten,
indulging my fancies in the chef’s invites.
Oh then I realized, I was in a stew
of a situation I never appraised
My untimely declaration sent your spits askew
When I said I want you preserved, not braised.
And of course, as I knew, you shook your head
said kinds words and went on ahead
But dearest, nigh a mo’ had I expected more
than being hastily pushed out of the door.
For cooks cook, but must not be mistook
for another entree to be had, for sure.
The dish is what the cook will cook
but the cook is not the dish d’jour.
Cured I was of such carnal an error
much wiser a decision I’d made I wish
for a recipe for disaster is every chef’s terror
when a patron, as I, butchers a perfect dish.
A lesson I learnt, one you taught so fast
’twas not a lesson in grilling —
but to choose a more delectable repast
one that thought that I was equally thrilling.
But to be fair, I give credit much deserved
to a palatable person as you
for Grade A and gourmet are commonly served
and yet only to you I succumbed without ado.
For as a vegan, I religiously abstain
from undue pleasures of the flesh
yet while the romps of meats were not in vain
I paid my compliments only to the chef…
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
Give me stars and bars and collard greens,
sweet lemonade and simple things,
Stevie Ray Vaughn and Lynyrd Skynyrd,
Texas brisket and beans for dinner.
Deep fried okra, and cornbread,
Black Diamond melons on a flatbed,
don’t be stupid, but if you start,
we’ll just say, “well bless your heart.”
Always fixin’ to go do something,
usually fishing, or maybe hunting,
running ‘round our stomping grounds,
never know what can be found.
Jack and coke or Coors Light Beer
copper still, dripping out clear,
fried catfish on Saturday,
in the barn for a roll in the hay.
George Strait sings out The Chair,
while we enjoy fresh country air,
sitting on the truck tailgate,
holding her hand and feeling great.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
The socialist and the socialite
sat themselves down for supper.
Arthur wore a blood red rose
while Sophie went for feathers.
The socialist and the socialite
had only a little in common
and neither said much at all
about the paths they'd trodden.
The socialist and the socialite
ate with polite conversation.
He had the slow cooked brisket,
while she had the salad with chicken.
The socialist and the socialite
left quietly with an old studied calm,
but once their door was firmly closed
fast fell into each other's arms.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
All I know is
The sound of a TV
I can't see.
The smell of burnt biscuits and
Days-old brisket.
A beer bottle pops
Ah, pops.
Jan 3, 2025
Jan 3, 2025 at 11:34 PM UTC