In Vortex Affinities: A Kitchen Suite:

I. Leather Jerky
If you would wield a whip
I ask that it be black.
What sense a stem crawl
or a whineful vine?
Flagrant fragrance of benign Nature,
or her creeping line of future nectar?

Kitchenry tells us much the same:
If solitary spaghetti seeks the
searing heat of iron skillets
to reach a useful hardness,
our gigantic appetite belittles it.
And if the sweet agitation of battered butter
would whet or satisfy your taste,
I, connosieur, could but sadly laugh.

Sight in flight no sooner yields a refrain.
And I must, will, see your harvest thrashed
Witness fate’s fleshly flogging,
Only to cure my binding hunger.

II. Fast Animated Food

I am not the sprite dwarf
who leads gorgeous blind men
and dazzled young albinos
down the alameda of knowledge
towards the feeding dish

I insist an electrified platter
of plates for cats who scoff shrimp
and our eyes lash last, starched
feline feelers to whisk the rats away
not let them gnaw or know
colorless visions of minute globes
Protect our kitchens though we eat outside.

III. the edible acronym

first to lash or nurse or splice this
laugh amend a lurid lush last
seal the lofts for pregnant sale wish
ghast rotund unfaithful sense of
good for fate a naked cure one
curve of risk foregone to pass known
feasts are asked to fool me follow gain.

IV. Having a Cake to Eat

This strident texture
of ripeness aloud as
the caulk ache allowed
nests in your bones
gripe not dry;
moist inscription
of lost imminence,
an incision decried;
mostly you devoured
an untrue devotion
a confection of faith
less folly from the center;
your own essence a baste
in the haste of sense
or the tenseless waste
of owning yourself.

V. Eating Alone

If squeezed freshly from the source
already halved juice trickles
through the leaved stalked
bulbed pitted shreds of light
the sprouted strands of beans to be will
form the cavern of foliage that organic
magnet of centrifuge and feeding for the
lemon dew of a single repast

VI. (added here, not in Vortex)

luncheon savoir

regardant your on-time habits
and nonesuch mid-day appetite
someone has a hunch that at best
the most delectable prize will
rest on a non-noon buffet:
a lurching forward toward hors
d’ œuvres, tidbits and munchies;
an array of cordons-bleus settings;
plates of interplay, live and wise;
buffered by a detectable rise in the pulse
of much intratext and crunched digits;
fruit, meat, fruition to clutch and feel
and hours of attrition to digest and hold.