all the food critics hate iceberg
lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended
from
opheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all
the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by
popeye,
not to mention aesthetic
subtleties worthy of
verlaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over
chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr.
iceberg lettuce.
I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
it doesn't matter that it tastes
good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness,
and has crevices for the
dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier
varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and
flat.
it just isn't different enough,
and
it's too goddamn american.
of course a critic has to
criticize:
a critic has to have something to
say.
perhaps that's why literary
critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of
me.
at any rate, I really enjoy a
salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg
lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an italian or
roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I
don't have
to pretend that I'm enjoying.
