mise

in the midway between a cigarette and a hiccup, I stumbled headlong into the kitchen of our forefathers and beheld a manifold of cutting boards laid out with sweet meats and luscious gourds, the delicate wetstrong hands of a dozen tiny chefs hacking to pieces the raw stuff of our character and stirring the pot of our brothers and sisters. the floors shone with grease fired off from a hundred sizzling skillets, coating every sweaty architect in a second skin, fogging my glasses and seeping into my hair. trashcans overflowed with eggshells and plastic, and the warm aroma of simmering marrow broth cushioned the soles of my shoes. one tinny radio elected the day's sharky rhythm, to which all tapped their knives and spoons in unison. the crack of cleavers crunching through bone and sinew I would never forget. the salt of my skin bleached me white. I bounded down the stairs and slid across the floor, tripping myself over guts and juices to retrieve onions, leeks, potatoes, livers and legs. the lights burned day and night, the grills hissed through every minute, time existed only in terms of rare and well. I gave my brothers a drink, cooked myself through, and jogged back up the stairs. I carbon copied my greasy face onto fresh linens and floated into a dull dream.