Vol 11, Num 13 :: 2012.06.22 — 2012.07.05
On our way to Chick-Fil-A there was The Kids
In the Hall skit I kept trying to explain
to the others. I imagined it as far worse
in memory than what it was. I told my friends
that the franchise was Kluckin’ Chicken
or something like that, and then we pictured
(I made a picture in their minds) a menacing,
wide-eyed boy with cleaver, smiling. He spread
the chicken blood for the sake of value meals.
I admired the Canadian fast-food satire,
but was soon mired by my own clutch production
of violence—red glittering, white ligaments,
which in turn I managed to render irrelevant
by a willingness, a need, to shrug it all away,
sure thing, as we traveled to the grand opening,
Aurora, dawn of something nourishing and new
in the far western outreaches of Chicagoland.
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