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