Ritual Around Food

The aromatic sway of oven warmth gathers the wage workers around a small dinner table,
Dinner Rolls!
Get the butter first! Cut the roll open and spread the butter. Close the roll and let the butter melt into the wheat.
Fill up that glass of water and turn the roll into mush.

First course.
Shepard's Pie!
Get the gravy! Pour the gravy over the mashed potatoes and mix it all up so every bit has a little bit of everything,
Fill up the glass of wine and indulge in a sweet intoxicant.

Main course.
Fried Chicken and Green Beans!
Get the salt! Grab the chicken breast and sugarcoat it with salt and eat like a carnivore. Eat the green beans in between bits of chicken.
Grab a beer and get ready for some sporting events on the television.

Dessert.
Ice Cream Sundays!
Get the hot fudge and smear it over the top. Next grab the whipped cream and spray it til the can is empty.
Get some warm milk and a glass of water because its almost time for bed.

Object Assignment

My eyes have adjusted to the up close, narrow sighted nature of my slavery,
My freedom exists in a compact world with the diversity of rocks, and sometimes I take myself there,
but awaken to the screeching sounds of my servitude,
Where is my freedom but in darkness? Was I once a fragment and now whole? Then who created me but my master? Or do I return to my home when I am most broken?
There is no beauty in this, no coloration that can guise my cleaved soul. My residue I leave is magnificent to behold. But in order to display my colors, I must be grasped with vigor, broken and drilled, my life is between a rock and a hard place.

Sound

The War Drummer
The War Drummer plays his snare in a cloud of gunpowder,
staccato hits careen across the Virginian rolling fields,
a snare never needs to reload,
the stoic face of a war drummer.

Never shoot the War Drummer,
To kill a mocking bird,
He only wears a cloak,
And keeps the rhythm for the air born cannon balls.

If the War Drummer is shot,
it should be in a crime of passion,
for if the drummer falls to his knees,
War is now in chaos!

Vestibulary

The Flag
A flag which snaps in a brisk breeze,
weighs a land so vast,
Lost in an age of glory a long time ago,
To be carried with the current of leaves in its funeral persession,
And resurrected for its perennial nostalgia.

The Suit
His musk is humble, but stains the wallpaper,
A rough sandpaper for a beard,
He buys top shelf pungency, to pour onto the floor,
The baritone voice radiates off walls, and gets undivided attention from across the room.
Everyone asks, "where can I get a suit like that."

Oil
That axle that screeches,
the black soup sprays violently,
the gore within the internal cumbustion,
the mechanic wears a small black veil,
cradles the engine in his arms.