“Man Christopher Walken Makes Chicken with Pears”, a Response
“To cook this chicken I’ve got this really cool…French… thing.”
Cooking with Walken,
his modest kitchen vaguely ridiculous
simply for its being Walken’s, and
Walken’s toothpicks, Walken’s Cuisinart,
Walken’s penny-splitting surgical stainless steel knives,
the peculiar need which stole over Walken that evening
to share his chicken & pear recipe with the hinternet:
“And those little caps… they get like little cookies… I save them.”
The naked chicken slipping out of Walken’s grip into the sink;
Walken selecting another from the rows in his walk-in freezer.
Walken burning his thumb on the pan, hissing
Walken editing this out of his seamless three minute cook
on Final Cut Pro, in his underwear:
“What I do is I take some of this… fat. And I cut that off.”
Walken’s irritable prostate forcing three toilet trips
before the upload bar fills.
Walken’s missing codec; confoundment,
Walken’s tank-end drip of old pee.
Walken finally calling his nephew
to come help him with this damn machine,
Walken the younger zipping up his windbreaker,
finding in this business
nothing remarkable whatsoever.