To American, yellow or white

I am provolone cheese, lone fascist cheese
Don't put me with your spices and pomp
Just Italian meats. I, formaggio--
Not queso, or feta, or cheese
Although quesillo like mozzarella is salty & stringy
& often sold in dank markets by stocky women
Quesillo, the quesadilla cheese, which by chance are like fritas, empanadas or arepas--
am distinct & delicious
Among one hundred cheeses in a Caracas menu, there, served with
Cafe con leche in tiny paper cups wrapped in corn corn corn--the new world maize maze

As carnival stilts & men, tall, seven-eight feet in drag
White faced & maquillaje painted, like oversized transsexual toys
Mechanical & smiling on the cosmopolitan Miss Universe making street beckon you
to buy me. There are united states up and down the Americas, one

conglomerate of them called Mexico and one remains nameless, multi-

faced, boasting jazz as its only semblance of culture beyond obesity

I, Provolone cheese, strong willed, steel stomached soldier,
Import to the Americas, against the wall, against dead pan firing squad,
Don't want to be on the plate with you!