THE ESKIMO’S GUIDE TO FINE DINING
Here I sit in my ice castle, the vast white space
of my throne room, my igloo,
not even so much as a whale bone to pick
through my cavernous teeth. I sit here
surrounded in blubber in the house I ate
my way through room by room.
I ate my way through chili dogs and cheeseburgers,
through pallets upon pallets of macaroni and cheese.
I ate my way through lasagna, bologna, tortellini,
and all the neapolitan I could find. I ate my way
through fried bananas, blueberry turnovers, pork
tenderloin and etouffe. I hate so I ate
until I could no longer eat. I ate my way through
rage in 47 different states of consciousness.
I’m not talking about any dharma puda, Brahma
Putra, puta, poontang, vedic, yogic nonsense
I’m talking about the spicy cajun catfish
andouille sausage jumbo jambalaya
consciousness is the consciousness I’m talking.
I’m talking the filet mignon and lobster tail
consciousness. The bacon double cheeseburger
with sautéed mushrooms and onions consciousness.
The peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream consciousness.
The eggs over easy, hash browns and biscuits consciousness
is what I’m talking.
I’m talking the chocolate consciousness–white and dark.
I’m talking the wild asparagus and morel mushrooms consciousness.
With that I’ve said it all. These are the last words you’ll ever hear
from me, I, the isolated fatman, David Ignitowski, the iggman,
the walrus, my arms useless flappers caressing my girth. I ate my way
into the center of this igloo, now I’m frozen here. I can no longer
even wipe my own ass.
—from Rattle #22, Winter 2004