idea log

fulton market is a dinner plate
of a street.
the curb wears scratches left
by the tines of a fork lift,
propane powered, turning on dimes.
chunks of concrete
and curlicues of rubbed off rubber
like overused china
scraped raw clean
chipped trails in graphite
skip across the asphalt.

a dumpster perched on a dovetailing
glacier bleeds rust,
flecks of fish scales pepper the ice
and by the smell of it
we’re having fish for dinner.

carry on!
behind the plastic curtains
dangling spread eagle
and dripping blood,
split pigs bare their ribs
and cow becomes beef
when it’s put in a box.
put away that carving knife,
that butchers blade;
this flesh was rent
by something industrial grade.
the curtains part
as wooden cartons
emerge.

palates packed
high slide into truck backs.
they keep barrels each
a plastic barrel full of bones and flesh;
rotator joints, mostly
bits of skin – the extra parts,
leftovers piled without a lid
into industrial tupperware.

on the side
in stencil:
INEDIBLE.
the contents sauced in Pantone teal
with something sulphurous, i’m sure
to keep them inedible
to keep them from rotting
decay, decomposition.

the workers wear rain boots
sun, snow, slush or shine
to slough through mud
a mix of water, blood,
the detritus that clings
to the bottom of all eighteen wheels,
and other things too, i’m sure,
that I drag across the doormat
wiping off what’s stuck to my soles.

Latino Meat & Produce, Inc.
the new latino kings made flesh
shovel produce in place of a corpse
while wearing labcoats
- not soaked spots, less soaking -
grime-caked and dirt-smeared.
clipboard, shovel, broom in hand:

here, there’s always a puddle
to push down the drain.

green peoria sangamon
what is a sangamon?
the streets traveresed
between halsted and morgan
with jaggedparked trucks
and beggarpushed carts
a skyscraper full of ice
(for cold storage)
and everywhere, hanging in the air,
the smell of old, wet fur.