Friday, January 15, 2010

Illiterate Progenitor @ The New Yorker

The rest of the poem by Mary Karr is interesting enough, but I think it could be cut down to this last ardently genuine stanza;

He took his smoke unfiltered, milk unskimmed.
       He liked his steaks marbled, fatback on mustard greens,
              onions eaten like apples, split turnips dipped
                     into rock salt, hot-pepper vinegar on black beans.

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