*

the monger had gone
to the local library
to see chef anthony bourdain
on his latest national
book tour

it had been an inspiring night

in his opening remarks
bourdain had said

i’ve gotten
along with
people
everywhere
in this world
and i’ve heard
some amazing
stories

largely because
i sit down
without an agenda
and ask
two very
simple
questions

what makes
you happy?

and

what do you
like to eat?

the monger had thought
tortilla chips
fresh ceviche
and cold narragansetts
while getting stoned
with his wife
at the end of september

bourdain had said

as i think i’ve said
before

the presence of
livestock
or chickens
in the dining room
is often the
mark of
a good meal

the monger had tried to
imagine a cow’s
head so close
to the table

so still and slow

he imagined reaching out
to pet it
and everyone’s eyes
trained on his

bourdain continued

i was there for
the full ride
how many times
am i going to
get to go
to vietnam
in my life?

how many times
am i going to
sit down with
a table of
viet-cong
war heroes
in the middle
of the jungle?

so when they broke out
the rice moonshine
and everyone wanted
to do a shot with
the visiting american
i felt obliged to take
full advantage of
that magical moment

and also

he laughed

there’s a competitive
urge

the monger remembered a
current events assignment
he’d had in high school to
summarize something from
the evening news

when he got his back
the teacher had written
in big red letters

THE NAM IN
VIETNAM
IS SPELLED WITH
AN ‘A’
NOT AN ‘O’

bourdain had said

a good line
cook never
shows up late
never calls
in sick
works through
injury
and pain

working
through pain
and injury
that counts
for a lot
with me

the monger remembered
the dream he’d had that
morning

he was back
in the kitchen at
waterman’s
the first kitchen
he’d ever worked
only it was totally empty
not even the stoves
and nearly pitch dark
cold tile floors
and echoing walls

when suddenly
old luis was there
the tiny grill man
the monger couldn’t
see his face
just the back
of his head
and his shoulders
in stiff white cloth
he looked busy
moving forward
toward the hall
the monger followed

when suddenly
luis was behind the monger
pulling him from
the neck
down to the floor
not a word or thought
just the weight
of the man’s
complete control

fear took the air
from the monger’s chest
as he settled onto
his knees

he looked up to where
the dark wall
met the dark ceiling
and woke in a sweat
totally confused

bourdain had asked

what type of person
gets to be happy?

and what type of
person
invariably doesn’t?

the monger had thought
of the janitor before
the latest janitor

it had been about
six years since
he’d been canned

the monger had thought
they might see
each other around
maybe at the bar nearby
but it hadn’t happened yet

bourdain had said

i often compare
the experience
of going to tokyo
for the first time
to what eric
clapton and pete
townsend must
have gone through
the week that jimi
hendrix came to
town

you hear about it
you go see it

a window opens up
into a whole new
thing
and you think

what does this mean?

what do i have left
to say?

what do i do now?

the monger had thought back
to another talk at the library

a filmmaker
whose name
he couldn’t
recall

she’d said
the plan
had always been
for her greatest
ambitions
to be held
at human scale

she’d said
on her set
everybody carries
the lights

everybody cooks
the food

everybody’s tired
they set up the tents

everybody sleeps
like it’s part
of the game

who can go harder?

who can turn out
the night’s
deepest dream?

the monger
thought of her
every now and again
when he surfed
which

these days
with everything else
was only ever
just a few times
every year

---

*

you bury one foot in
the fish book

the other foot stays stuck inside
the cloudy book

the fish book outlined,
full-lipped,
pokeable pages

the cloudy book blowing,
heavy doling,
fragile packet

one foot chops while
the other whisks

one foot gasps while
the other grays

both start to weather
both start to stew
both start to ferry
both start to flake
both start to soften
both start to rise

both books flip open
you put down another
extension in each

a knee and a hand
an eye and a ball
one hair after the other
an ear and a breast

one of each
until both halves
have been
evenly
apportioned

half starts to taper
half starts to bind

half starts to barrel
half starts to drive

half itches
half slips

half mimics
half pries

half ripens
half darkens

half eases
half hones

both halves get clammy
both halves grow prone

to parataxis
to influence
to index
to price

but for the half
in the fish book
it’s more like
a tug

for the half
in the cloudy book
more like a
push

a push from behind
a tug into darkness

you tumble out the
boundary of
a tawny overhead
light