It Would Be Nice

I've heard stories about places
where plants grow in the water
green as things they call trees and
so rich in nutriment that I would die
if I tried to digest them.
It would be nice to have a look.

I've heard there was a body
that came this way a few years back,
dead and in that way common
to you and me, but though dead
still with enough excess life
to feed hundreds.
It would have been nice
to have a look.

I've heard if the world up there,
so high we can't see or begin to dream,
wasted away and fell into the sea
we breath and drifted for years
through cool density and
the mouths above
we could feast for ages.
I don't know if there's truth to that,
but it would be nice to believe.

The Wizard Lays an Egg

If you could, for a minute,

set down on a milk crate

in my kitchen and watch

me move between

tools and powders and bowls and

eye ball dashes of one parts and two

licked pinky tastings and aromatic

family tree free basings amid

extra sensory perceptions of

wind up timer accuracy and 

flavor meshing diplomacy

better than any team of rivals

you could understand,

with theory, practice, and improv held under thumb,

why I am livid that three batches and

twelve years of cooking in

a simple pot of white rice

to this day has me completely stumped.