A kitchen is a Roman affair.
A circus certainly. Bread and abundance,
and house brewed beer brought
by sometimes brutal labor.
Captains and soldiers clang pots
like Caesar's famous army,
or that of Frederick II Hohenstaffen.
We cooks chop with short, stout blades,
and organize like a quartemaster’ corps,
firing pies and meats. We serve
a Latin feast with spices from the east,
western wheat, and the best cheeses,
in the Kentucky Derby City of Louisville,
where north meets south. The Louisville Lip
was the mouth of millions. Nobody cares
about cooks, especially when the meal is
delicious. But look how they've solved
starvation in Schnizelburg, at least for some.
Schnizelburgh, gentrified former German
slum, once a Catholic buffer zone along
apartheid railroad tracks, now still marked by
the Imperial Eagle of Barbarossa. A few post-
Protestants are still on crusade.
The remainder have given up on Jerusalem,
old and new. Now, if Albrecht Duhrher lived,
he'd engrave skin with tattoos.
The only empire now is Capital.
We brew beer and distill rum here.
Everbody with money is welcome.
Some amazing word-acrobacy here. Still, I'd like to be in that kitchen.