Cartoon Heartburn

I want to eat a cartoon pizza
yellow-white cheese dangling
aroma waves drifting
pulled up the nostrils
by a long blissful sniff.
I want to peel off
crimson pepperoni rounds
like a lover’s pants.
The colors of crust and meat
so sensuously uniform.
The cartoon characters at the dining table
tearing into the pie.
A blood craze like Serengeti lionesses
having at the twisted-necked impala.
No real humans enjoy their food this way.
Cartoonists create a food paradise,
and sometimes
the old pizza pie, she is magic.
For every slice swept away in frenzy
another appears, reborn for the taking.

But if this pizza is a want
then the cartoon beer
is last call on prohibition’s eve:
the over-flowing foam-head
the draw from the tap
the drawling unreal, “Shloosh!” on the soundtrack
as it’s poured.
Beer that looks to taste
more like beer than beer,
the creamy color of manila paper,
and the mug, always a beautiful mug,
brought to lips, the weight lifters clean and jerk,
shuddering temptation, and
a back-handed swipe
wipes the mad-dog froth off the ugly mug
as the last act of satisfaction.
Cartoon pizza and cartoon beer,
I’m some kind of a fool to want it.
What does it get me?


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