Brian Howe





Ordered the Boeuf Tourmenté for my dinner
then called for the torturer, as a dessert—                                  
they said des clous! I thought that was shabby,                
so I demanded a remastered gratin                       
gratuit, defragmented, family style,
infinitely drizzled with open-source sauce.
It made me happy enough to eat a glory
whole: a nub you'd like to kiss, but oh . . .
It's so hairy. The cigarette comes apart
in your fingers. The smoke blows to bits
in my mouth. Code courses around . . .
The world ends. It's lonely for a season.

Then, a call.
Out deep where the waves calm
on the red seas sloshing in all
our brake-lights, the liana salad's
lethal with green vinaigrette.
Verdigris is a word for weather
that's almost as hungry as you.                  



To Make A Vegan Oyster                                                                
simply follow these instructions:                
Kill an oyster                                                            
& prize out
the meat in the shell
to be replaced
by an ingot of soy                                                                   
or wheat gluten,
with each hundredth                                  
one made of gold
& each thousandth
maybe a lion's nut.
Plate w/ an ostrich
plume, voila

A drugged oracle's body
being smuggled around
like stolen art.



Pinup of the dawn, I do
get dizzy on hot chimeras & then
my imagination flies out rattling
its saber, whipping up a holy war                            
against an eggplant field it thinks                            
is an invasion. Distantly the drums            
of tissue steam on a crimson rig,                            
though it could be a patch of peonies.       
My imagination likes to open gates                                      
& not go in. You see it rouging up
the eggplants, ruching their gowns                                               
until they become so wretchedly pretty                             
they wail their dismal bliss out loud.         
Who could rebel against omniscience?                    
In my single day of life it's always noon.