breaded pieces

some days people said the neglected deep fryer that functioned as our altar could birth the next renaissance from its aluminum womb

even though its mechanical contractions no longer felt what came out

and what poured in wasn’t worthy of inadequate resurrection

we’d stand around it anyway and applaud the basket for what it served or didn’t

and the oil that obeyed the heat

wondering if the guided tour would tell us if sculptures were worthy of the praise

or if our applause would be mercifully lost in the sterile halls or buried in the tile with the adhesive responsible for crippling the sickening mass long enough for a shared climax

as though it had a say or we had a choice in the prescribed performance and observance

in the eternal celebration of breaded pieces that were baptized and discharged through open holes

as though we recognized the hollow fingers that still served toothpicks tasked with moving dying beasts

or that our mouths opened and shut in unison with the tide of the oil

I never looked too long at the things that were made there

but sometimes I thought about

what must have been lost in the needless build and dismantle