I used to live across the street from a dairy farm. The calves, destined
for the veal bins, were enclosed in small spaces and fed well, but by a
regular yankee farmer.

Most people in the veal business are more likely to have sex with the calf
than the resultant meat. But they're mostly not poets.

Mark


At 01:34 AM 4/30/2002 -0400, you wrote:
>This evening I made veal parmesan
>and wrote a boring poem.
>
>First I defrosted the veal in a bowl of cold water.
>That was after some underpaid migrant farmer
>tortured some small cow by stuffing it full of food
>and not letting it wander.  Like Monday Night Football.
>Here on ABC. Some throat cutting and eventually
>a veal cutlet.  And a poem.  Whoops. Shit or get off
>the pot indeed applies to poetry, but as an unintended norm.
>Let me get to that.  I then contemplated the importance of
>coprophage logotypes.  I mean corporate.  Sorry.
>I ask you, 0 sweet audience, is 7-11's logo more penetrant,
>a seven like a blade, than IBM's?  I mean only to suggest
>every once in a while we all take a shit.  So what?  Why
>advertise?  Oh right.  The poem.  Shit.  I mean the food.  Right.
>
>Second I pounded the veal flat, after placing it between
>two sheets of wax paper.   Comfortable fucking, you know the kind.
>Not too hard.  Don't want bruising but you want some firm slapping of
>pelvis against your preference.  Thud thud thud.  Here on CBS.  We're out
>of toilet paper.  Pass the New York Times.  Right again.  Pounding away.
>The point is not to tolerate my pounding.  Celebrate it with me.
>
>Third I dredged the veal in flour, then egg, then bread crumbs.
>White death and the potential for cholesterol.  My HDLs and LDLs are
>reasonably well-fitted to the subject of a poem, since, after all,
>a poem is a pile of shit, or so the Paris Review told me once.
>It whispered gently in my ear, after some hot sex followed by a good
>sweaty shit.  I learned about defecating from my parents.  Family values
>gone straight down the shitter.  Here on ABC.  Roll that veal, roll, roll.
>And keep that cholesterol of love rolling in the hay I pray.
>
>Fourth I heated a pan of olive oil.  Extra virgin.
>You thought I was going to take advantage of that moment of purity
>but I keep my hands off the verdant mama.  I let the migrant worker
>rape her for me.  My bourgeois guilt and a recyclable popsicle stick.
>Give me Al Gore and a colloidal oatmeal colonic.  Give me George Bush
>and a planet the shape and smell of a burning pile of dough. Georgie like
>cookie.  Georgie eat shit and smile.  He no write poem.  He leave it to
>stinky poo Jimmy Carter pres.  Jimmy he stinko no bombo. And
>drop the dead cow into the hot oil pop pow like the fourth of July with
>third degree burns.  Shit poem and you remember it means more
>your friends are stacked in a pile like lumber, great trees
>cut down, dead.  You are now alone.  The Great Shitstorm did not
>smile upon you.  It left you FOX, the Washington Post, Cisco
>and the Circle K.  They were gods and died before they invited you
>into the regularly scheduled programming.  The dead are not dead but call
>      you into
>the black.  The black is not a pile of shit or a television show, not
>the veal parmesan your petty life afforded you, but instead
>a request.  You can't hold a job and your head is cloudy but you must make
>      something
>yes something make something that is not a pile of shit, to make it with
>      anger hope fear love
>and some words.  Lay off the shit the dead channel says, shake that steady
>      diet of shit,
>hopelessly wander in search of a myth called yourself
>and then let go.
>
>
>
>-----Original Message-----
>From: Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and
>poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]]On Behalf Of Candice Ward
>Sent: Tuesday, April 30, 2002 12:45 AM
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: To Dom
>
>
>oh you _are_ brave, ermie, to dare a souffle!
>
>i'm just fine, thanks--hope you are too.
>
>best wishes to all,
>
>c
>
>
>
>on 4/30/02 12:30 AM, Erminia Passannanti at [log in to unmask] wrote:
>
> > On Mon, 29 Apr 2002 20:50:45 -0400, Candice Ward <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> >
> > but when i lived in iowa city and was known as
> >> mother megrit, i was famous for apple pie--so good it even drew a yummy
> > rock
> >> star to my basement door one night after his band opened for neil (be
> > still
> >> my heart) diamond--c
> >>
> >>
> >
> > Hello, Candice, sweetie-pie. How are you, my diamantine beauty (diamantine
> > because your eyes shine in the sun and your voice is resonant like
> > diamonds in a starry night). And how is my diamond doing, a  part from
> > shining? I have jusr learned from Brian Cole's wife, Anna, how to make a
> > yummy souffle: teh recepie is a basic one, and you can add whatever you
> > wish in it. I never made a souffle before in my life.
> >
> > erminia