the epicures

Who knows what lies after
the abattoir? Sausages
I hope. Ashes

aren't worth much more than scattering, but
maybe some part of me will be called fois gras?

dined upon
by an elder otherdimensional
(and getting ever extradimensional
all the time) connoisseur? Perhaps

our spirits are injected into flesh,
to crimp and pinch
and mature into souls
of breathtaking exquisition, only

for the delectation of diners
crying out bravo, compliments!
in some heightier, weightier
or greatier reality? Oh,

they synthesize and mass-produce
cloned souls, too - from those judged
best, but

there's nothing
like the real lived-in and enfleshed
savor of a soul self-grown, marbled
by its triumphs, made tender and succulent
by its agonies, and - cases like mine, (I will not
say yours, but feel free to self-include) gamier

by its untamed wildness. Which isn't exactly
prized, but. There are aficionados.

As with everything.

No accounting for tastes