Food Verses

  • Archive
  • RSS
  • Ask Anything
Sestina for Hooters Some of it was expected— the girls,                          in their Tamara panty hose— sickly orangelegs, the same color as the buffalo wings,     serving cheap beers to bores on sad afternoons. We knew about the clichéd booty baring uniforms—What we didn’t expect were tables full of families.  Or the entire softball team, and their families,eating like this was a place you should take little girls—fake breasts parading in too tight uniforms,people with bad taste swallowing piles of orange,while they drink away their summer afternoons,claiming, “I only come here for the wings.” As if by using the pathetic pretense of wings,you could erase that fact that familiesare not meant to spend their Sunday afternoonsin sexist chain restaurants, admiring girlswho have no problem being seen wearing orangeor working a job that requires hot pants as a uniform.  The iconic owl stares from each perky chest with uniform,creepy, “O” eyes that seem to say, “eat more wings.”And suddenly, I feel like I’m being swallowed by orange.A woman in a wheelchair smokes outside as familiesstare plaster-eyed at football, ignoring the girls,who don’t even bother to flirt for tips in the afternoon. We both agree that we’ve had better afternoons,as we note the nuances of the Hooters uniformsworn in the photos of the international pageant girls.Your burger is so bad that you can’t eat it, and perhaps wingswere actually the way to go.  I mean, all of these families,seem happy, their fingers and faces all slathered in orange. And really, what’s so bad about orange?It’s the color that adorns late summer afternoonsand recalls those lazy days spent outside with our families—Except that this is not the shade of the uniform.It’s not even a lively hue that sometimes peppers parrot wings—It’s the unfortunate tint of a too tanned Jersey girl. And I cannot accept this orange, even if it is a uniform.It’s like a bad Wings song blasting on a too hot afternoon—Music adored by clichéd girls who feel rejected by their families. 
View Separately

Sestina for Hooters
 
Some of it was expected— the girls,                         
in their Tamara panty hose— sickly orange
legs, the same color as the buffalo wings,    
serving cheap beers to bores on sad afternoons.
We knew about the clichéd booty baring uniforms—
What we didn’t expect were tables full of families.
 
Or the entire softball team, and their families,
eating like this was a place you should take little girls—
fake breasts parading in too tight uniforms,
people with bad taste swallowing piles of orange,
while they drink away their summer afternoons,
claiming, “I only come here for the wings.”
 
As if by using the pathetic pretense of wings,
you could erase that fact that families
are not meant to spend their Sunday afternoons
in sexist chain restaurants, admiring girls
who have no problem being seen wearing orange
or working a job that requires hot pants as a uniform.
 
The iconic owl stares from each perky chest with uniform,
creepy, “O” eyes that seem to say, “eat more wings.”
And suddenly, I feel like I’m being swallowed by orange.
A woman in a wheelchair smokes outside as families
stare plaster-eyed at football, ignoring the girls,
who don’t even bother to flirt for tips in the afternoon.
 
We both agree that we’ve had better afternoons,
as we note the nuances of the Hooters uniforms
worn in the photos of the international pageant girls.
Your burger is so bad that you can’t eat it, and perhaps wings
were actually the way to go.  I mean, all of these families,
seem happy, their fingers and faces all slathered in orange.
 
And really, what’s so bad about orange?
It’s the color that adorns late summer afternoons
and recalls those lazy days spent outside with our families—
Except that this is not the shade of the uniform.
It’s not even a lively hue that sometimes peppers parrot wings—
It’s the unfortunate tint of a too tanned Jersey girl.
 
And I cannot accept this orange, even if it is a uniform.
It’s like a bad Wings song blasting on a too hot afternoon—
Music adored by clichéd girls who feel rejected by their families.
 

    • #Illustration
    • #art
    • #austin
    • #drawing
    • #food
    • #hooters
    • #poetry
    • #sestina
    • #south first
    • #hooters girls
    • #hooters girl
  • 5 months ago
  • 2
  • Comments
  • Permalink
  • Share
    Tweet
Cento for Jovitas Surrounded by coming and going aromas,cinnamon eyes celebrate.A marriage of substances—they are this night, this music. Slime sparkles in the pool— in the streetspapers and leaves are chasedwith resentment. Kiwi begins to shine and throb—the juice unsullied and glazed. I love you like the sharp tangof fermentation, like blissful pulp,oozing, bittersweet. We linger after dinner, vaguelytalking— spellboundby the intermittent noise of dishes. (Lines from: Ramón López Velarde, Víctor Terán, Coral Bracho and Octavio Paz)
View Separately

Cento for Jovitas
 
Surrounded by coming and going aromas,
cinnamon eyes celebrate.
A marriage of substances—
they are this night, this music.
 
Slime sparkles in the pool— in the streets
papers and leaves are chased
with resentment.
 
Kiwi begins to shine and throb—
the juice unsullied and glazed.
 
I love you like the sharp tang
of fermentation, like blissful pulp,
oozing, bittersweet.
 
We linger after dinner, vaguely
talking— spellbound
by the intermittent noise of dishes.
 
(Lines from: Ramón López Velarde, Víctor Terán, Coral Bracho and Octavio Paz)

    • #art
    • #austin
    • #drawing
    • #food
    • #cento
    • #illustration
    • #poetry
    • #south first
  • 8 months ago
  • 1
  • Comments
  • Permalink
  • Share
    Tweet
Torchy’s Tacos
The trailer park simmers— Mr. Pink slices strips of darkness by the crossroads. A ranch hand scrambles, marinating in trashy love, wedged between Jamaican breasts. Republican jerks scratch dirty puppies, drinking before breakfast. Sanchez brushes against her skirt, shredding tender fires. Saturday’s treats dip Into delicious choices— sugar or chocolate monks or Democrats hot or slow roasted.
View Separately

Torchy’s Tacos

The trailer park simmers—
Mr. Pink slices
strips of darkness
by the crossroads.

A ranch hand scrambles,
marinating in trashy
love, wedged between
Jamaican breasts.

Republican jerks scratch
dirty puppies, drinking
before breakfast.

Sanchez brushes
against her skirt,
shredding tender fires.

Saturday’s treats dip
Into delicious choices—
sugar or chocolate
monks or Democrats
hot or slow roasted.

    • #art
    • #austin
    • #food
    • #found poem
    • #illustration
    • #poetry
    • #south first
    • #tacos
    • #drawing
  • 1 year ago
  • 1
  • Comments
  • Permalink
  • Share
    Tweet
Freddie’s Place
One:
Rainy day puddles,mimosas in plastic cups—sweet, crisp perfectionwhen waffle meets fried chicken—addiction begins here.
Two:
Dog birthday parties—Terriers at two tableseat treats beneath feet.Pork chops compliment waffles—Freddie’s cures hangovers.
View Separately

Freddie’s Place

One:

Rainy day puddles,
mimosas in plastic cups—
sweet, crisp perfection
when waffle meets fried chicken—
addiction begins here.

Two:

Dog birthday parties—
Terriers at two tables
eat treats beneath feet.
Pork chops compliment waffles—
Freddie’s cures hangovers.

    • #austin
    • #drawing
    • #food
    • #illustration
    • #poetry
    • #south first
    • #tanka
    • #waffles
  • 1 year ago
  • 3
  • Comments
  • Permalink
  • Share
    Tweet

Food Verses

Eating the streets of Austin, one poetic form at a time.

Words by Bree.
Images by David.

Haiku
Villanelle
List Poem
Concrete Poem
Limerick
Cinquain
Lục bát
Tanka
Found Poem
Cento
Sestina

  • @foodverses on Twitter
  • Facebook Profile
  • RSS
  • Random
  • Archive
  • Ask Anything
  • Mobile

Effector Theme by Carlo Franco.

Powered by Tumblr