The Word Made Pork

Spambellina Says: JS and I have an ongoing debate over the sanctity of barbecue. Living in the West, I firmly believe that beef is an essential part of the canon — what else are we supposed to do with all the cows out here? Brisket, tri-tip, big ol’ beef ribs that look like dinner for the Flintstones . . . I can’t get enough charred steer. According to JS, beef is an offense to barbecue orthodoxy in the South, where you can’t even make out in a Waffle House parking lot without being ogled by a giant fiberglass hog:

Bucko from the Waffle House

The experience was so traumatic for Spambellina that she had to go and write a poem about it, just to get Bucko’s vacant leer out of her system.

The Word Made Pork

Haunted pig, holy pig
patron pig of every lonely soul
who ever showed up, empty,
at the wrong trough, to fill
the wrong void. That void
belongs to you, Oh Pig –
I see it yawn behind the vacant
doorways of your eyes.

I’m making out with my beloved in his car
in the parking lot outside the Waffle House. And I’m full –
fuller than I’ve been forever,
belly filled with waffles, mouth filled
with his tongue, arms filled with the man who
fuels and fucks and feeds me.

Across the street, two planetary eyes
lock dead on mine. Trojan swine of Bucko’s Barbecue,
hugely hollow scavenger of joy,
he wants the supper in my belly, the hand that’s spinning joy
between my thighs. Flesh, waffles,
anything to feed his fiberglass abyss.

He craves the mysteries of my meat-heart,
the fire that comes from no infernal barbecue. He longs to plunge
his snout into the pit of me, to root inside
the warm, wet cavern of my gut. To merge with me,
become me, when I come for my beloved
outside the Waffle House.

Haunted pig, holy pig
salvation pig to every solitary soul
who went out seeking meat, and straggled home
with pocketfuls of dust
That dust belongs to you, Oh Pig.
Please spare this sweet true flesh that feeds me, fills me
feeds me once again. Let me have
this overflow of love.

Author: Spambellina
Photos: JS, who risked life and limb to take these shots outside the Waffle House, while being harrassed by Camaro-driving philanderers who thought he was a PI hired by their wives. Photography is a dangerous hobby these days.


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January 2007
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