day THREE HUNDRED and TWELVE

Wise Potato Chips

are my absolute favorite
and can’t be beat.

Not only are the
chips fried the most golden,
or that every once in a while
a burned one appears
like a raunchy dream,
it’s reaching in
and pulling out
obnoxiously
large chips, still sturdy
for a glob of dip,
usually from
a tub of Turner’s, but
often from Scheinder’s,
which is sweet.

Drunk, they’re
clouds in the sky.
I’ve crunched
dog heads and
patron saints, dunked
elephants fried stiff.
Some take two, three bites.
Stood in the snack aisle
snuffing back tears
on Super Bowl Sunday
after grabbing the last
giant bag the year
my father died.
He made dip out of
cream cheese, chopped
green olives w/pimento
and a bunch of brine.

Wise potato chips are fucking
delicious and now
I have to unpack this:
Found out they’re owned
by a huge nasty conglomerate
and it pangs. I could
live with it being
the official chip
of the NY Mets, but this?
What are we to do?
No matter how much we try
our greasy fingers
we will always
have to choose.
A trip to the
grocery store
is a political test.
Buying salmon at
Wal Mart funds
North Korea’s nukes?
Yeungling run
by a bunch of
union-busting
dickweeds.
Hell, even
texting someone
you love
is carried on the
backs of Chinese
slaves. All those
tiny parts dipped
in mercury.
Each breath
an injustice.
Our grandparent’s
love for bananas
peeled skin
from human skulls.
A man buried
in the Westinghouse
Bridge, some
Croatian guy,
who gives a shit?

Been this way forever.
All our bones
deserve to be crushed.
I dip and I dip.

--Bob Pajich