Pizza Through the Ages
by Tom Kelly
When a short-circuited Venice burnout shouts,
the pie鈥檚 a fornicating communist! I almost laugh.
But if Brad Pitt once wandered this boardwalk
in a chicken suit, am I not obliged to test
my skepticism鈥檚 fabric? I chew on a slice
of free-range chicken barbecue, hand-tossed
by Hollywood鈥檚 next star or statistic, and consider
its disparity from the pepperoni marinara I call home
delivered, boxed youth, the taste of a girl I fucked
moving out or The reason our hands touched
the first time. Centuries ago in Naples,
nobles called pizza peasant food. Then Queen
Margherita took a nibble and climaxed in her
mouth. Today pizza鈥檚 supreme lord of the internet
while a nearby gelato vendor hawks royal blood
to talent scouts who order strawberry,
make it snappy! I slide my feet into sand,
watch the sun parody Hollywood film endings,
wondering when light over the Pacific
became lucrative clich脙漏. Disgusted with myself
for once calling a big-budget trope catalyst
for transformation, I point at the horizon,
roar the sun鈥檚 a sentimental capitalist!
and swallow my remaining pie.