two prose poems

Nacho Nirvana

On my way home from the gym I see a sign by the pricey steak house on Broad St.—it says,

“Experience Nacho Nirvana. $6.”

I’ve been a short order cook before, and I can guess that this is probably a blend of several diabetes-inducing cheeses, grated and melted over corn-flower chips with salt and grease liberally processed in. You might as well spin the cheese in a centrifuge, separate out the fat molecules and inject them straight into your heart’s hardest arteries. Sure, it would be a shock, but think of the time you’d save in trying to kill yourself with self-indulgent grease-coated fat-laden death-flakes.

On the other hand, they’re only $6....


In Just Fifty Years

For no particular reason, Broad Street has a garish pink, violet and blue lights display beaming up the tall buildings’ facades in a sort of a synchronized disco ballroom rhythm, but slower, like the whole thoroughfare is on major tranquilizers. In the display case of Borders Books I see a cover photo of an ultra-macho guy, and the title is something like In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks.