What is it about frying food in oil that makes it so incredibly more delicious? Sacred, greasy alchemy. The sizzle, crackle, pop of french fries, tater tots, and chicken. Eggplant is a ginormous sponge, sucking vital olive oil in and in and in. It never stops! Add a little salt, some sauce. The frying of eggs in the morning after a good night out. Again, smelling heavenly. I have never worked a deep fryer before. I have only worked one food industry job in my life and that was for one night, where I understood then and there that I did not want a food industry job. I am yellow, glowing with appreciation for all those work in it because I know it is incredibly hard and oftentimes thankless. My soul can’t handle thankless jobs. Don’t you want to know what it’s like to dream sometimes? Food Network television shows. Hush puppies. I can feel the grease on my face, from imagining myself working in the kitchen. Golden bubbles promising cheat day. Moist, salty morsels of guilty pleasures. Too hot to touch, I don’t care if it scalds the inside of my mouth sometimes. The hiss of the pan. Bacon. Chemistry happening. Kitchen chemistry. The art of delicate care in handling that deep fryer handle. Grease fire. Smoky and fuel neverending. Watching an old episode of Bar Rescue. Guilty pleasure again. Reality TV I could watch for hours. Deep fried butter and kool aid. Newspops at state fairs where I’ve never been. Excellent humdrum evenings and afternoons. Kicking dead grass and smelling sky. Angels above earworms, singing loving tunes expressing themselves outwards in flight. Noticing the touchpoints of every living thing. Full body scan through the Earth. I feel its heaviness and sorry sorrow. Moments away from exhaling its last. What does that mean for us? Don’t we want to know what happens when we turn the page? Goosebumps in large print, feeling the raised part of the paperback. Why do kids love to be scared? Emotional hazing. Drumming tragic on a harp. Percussive pinpricks of avant-garde deluge daydream afternoon wondering if the the cow will kow-tow down on it’s knees to seek approval for its milk. Yesterdays spent on wedding rehearsals when time is man-made construct. Twiddling thumbs, whistling Dixie. Yahoos stomp to old songs in a log cabin I have never visited. It is a pile now. Out on the roadway, elementary everything. Spinning and releasing wishy-

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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