American Chef

Pieces of ruby flesh,
crusted in crystal and spice,
caramelize in volcanic oil—

while juvenile delinquents,
hopped up on Freudian splendor,
trudge their linear focus.

They banter over last night’s foils,
dripping in three million BTUs,
grappling red-hot iron and razor-blue steel
with blistered, gnarled beaters—

doing their best Jackson Pollock
in a swarm-storm of white annoyances,
thick as Jamaican smoke.

They need rest
and bourbon dreams
of dark, drunken, back-alley sexpots—

but dread the next day’s prep list,
hanging precariously in dim-lit caverns
of stainless steel and made-up air,
carrying waves of Latino radio,

as Aztec warriors and Irish cream
blaze amid the fervor of soap and brooms,
racing to clan and cave.

Leaving me
in the unadulterated atomic power
of after-labor jitters,
seeking the sweet, angelic clink of ice glasses,

and arbitrary thoughts of happy, hungry blondes
with emerald eyes,
crawling from pub to pub,

singing toasts
to warm beds bathed in sadistic
early morning rays—

crippled in stunned vertigo visions
of tomorrow,
thinking,
in pureperfect form:
the day is done.