This is the story of a pizza crust
told in the form of a recipe
or that’s what they want you to think.
The family history of this enclave
would make the happy clams slam shut.
My ancestors were like young children
who found an old fashioned bicycle
rusting in the thick grass;
they climbed on and could ride it instantly –
but were never able to get off.
Far off in the dead dog night some tortured creature howls
too piercing to be ignored –
in fact it ignites and excites me
and I dream myself back to the printed page.
“Three cups all-purpose flour” — a revelation
How many purposes can flour serve?
Will it truly answer all of one’s needs?
Or is it simply hanging around hoping to get a shot
at the active dry yeast
There is dew on the lily in the bread pan tonight
You have had your way with the olive oil —
it is surely all a downhill slide from there.
Stand too long in the oven’s hollow glow
and you will be baked into an unleavened statue
With no uses at all, beyond the obvious
A sad sack of frozen peas, now a tragic thaw
its brains turned to sickly green mush
it’s another lesson never learned
If you fall from the horse, get back on
and ride – just not in the same direction
or with the same dreams
Those thoughts which crawl like spiders out of the wet dough
smeared behind them, the trail of your pain.
And in the end, what is pizza anyway?
A few twists of broken crust
a made-up food
the Liar’s Meal
like the beating Heart of God
it is universally revered.
For every nation dines upon it
yet none will claim it as their own.