Belly Fire

Guy Fieri was proof Americans 

were a rash and unholy people,

but something in the cruising,

the barnstorming, the bottomless hunger

of so many diners dived and devoured 

made the smoke of belly fire lustrous song.

Come with me, platinum-blonde chortled, 

and if you could believe that beef-steak,

you could see the sun-bloodied plains 

for the tables they were,

the feasts hosted in the holes of ourselves,

the hamburger finally coming like absolution.

We know we belong to this grease-land

and lacquered mouth,

the edge of dream when gut-sated,

how our bellies put us down to sleep 


Scott Neuffer is a writer from Nevada. Follow him on Twitter @scottneuffer

Categories: Guy Fieri

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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