Overly Requited Oil, et alia

I don't know why for three days past I've felt I had to buy
the alimentary equivalents of ormolu, Venetian glass
and fleur-de-lis, but New York City’s numerous emporia
for such délices have so regaled me with their promise
of exotic feasts that, trancelike, I've continued to succumb.
I'm getting numb. Quixotic food-stuffs – sugared crude
puffs – mousse-y frilly Eurotrash – vacuous inanities
cost so much cash! – silly as banana-knees, these
untoward seasonings redacted, mashed in fancy cheese –

olives so ridiculously masked and macerated in so many
savory complexities they constitute a reeking lie. These
and other trivialities I buy, and wonder if this might be
some new sneaky arcane methodology to wield a covert
crime – oblique morbidity – food version of concatenated
strained unwieldy rhyme. Truth is, nothing élite stores
have wrought that I have bought appeals: I get it home,
subject it to whatever grating, peeling, slicing, or de-icing
it requires, and each misbegotten morsel makes my

skin perspire, tongue recoil. I do not savor overly requited
oil or rude insistent bitter pastes that masquerade
as evidence of finer tastes. Why do I waste my currency
thereon? Perhaps to test my premise that exoticism
doesn't have a leg up on the merely here? More likely
I'm a six-year-old who wonders what it’s like to put a mouth
upon the truly queer. Everything’s a miracle, no matter if
aggressively maneuvered into the gratuitously lewd –
or shrewdly stewed – or nude. Including all this lousy food.


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