Vi Khi Nao

Tarrargon, are you a wild boar? My friend, lemon zest, has not been that Thyme, Cognac,falooda glass noodle These things prowl the night without cape Gooseberries or bacalao Tarragon, are you a wild boar? Each time I eat you, I stop breathing Little owl, where is your happiness? Wake up + make people believe In you, gastrique + steaklette Is that chive embarrassed? To be with the savoy cabbage? Tarragon, are you a wild boar? I was born female, hyper-focused Let me trim your skirt, halibut It’s dragging salt against my oregano Buttered by butter in no butter Tarragon, are you a wild boar? It’s too bad the caper isn’t wearing A cape when the Peruvian potatoes Are sitting on a bed of coals while Floating down a river coconut On the verge of falling off A truffle, which is a Shadow floating inside of a shadow

It’s unbearable to shadowdrift along the seabed. It’s unbearable to grieve when sleeping is more important. The boat is a hammock without strings. As the body is a sleeve not strung to the soul. The boat is chained to the shadow; when the shadow drifts, the boat drifts too. Is it at sea? Or is it just in air? Can a boat live on air alone? The man’s back bleeds. This is all expected of creatures who sacrifice their nudity for solitude and immortality. The flesh is eager to float, fully captivated by the impulse to preserve an array of stillness. The horizon is not skirring and nothing can move on that river made of air. This boat. This boat. This boat that the horizon can’t coat with its own monolithic entreaty. The man bathes in all blemishes of the moon. The man’s body can take imperfection, as he feels complete. His white-grey hair is a type of condensed cloud he can rest his head on. If he must commit suicide, he knows he will rest on a very comfortable pillow, one that he grows from the ovoid base of his skull. It’s good to get all the hard work done first and then unbutton one’s corporeal flesh calmly before the undiluted enterprise of air. His penis is one finger pointing to the line that separates his thighs. Everything is hidden deliciously inside his pituitary gland.

fish carcass say hello to pork rind + arborio rice while castaway caraway puree returns home to deconstruct wilted carrot from its butter + herb remnants fish carcass say goodbye to a knife fight between under-marinated onion slice + wasted redbor kale amidst a gun battle between grilled salmon + paprika fish carcass say goodnight to electrolytes + magnesium as a chemical imbalance takes place inside the borderline cod meat fish carcass say good morning to anti-griddle + orange liqueur whose pre-conditional love for salt + bitterness reminiscent of caviar + pancetta vinaigrette has put quail eggs under the cloche fish carcass say midday to emu eggs while the sun twirls inside a decadent basket of fish sauce without making the plastic mattress, walk-in refrigerator, + bacon sabayon feel left out fish carcass say cloud nine say egginess say shell-shocked say cornichon say it angelo say italian meringue say calf liver say republic of georgia say lavash say turnpike turnips say succotash say yuzu marmalade say overcooked quail say chef teah evans say fish head say into a barrel say bacon fat say baby corn say flavor profile say with victory say the gods are with me say no guts no glory say did not materialize say story on a plate