This is actually more of a sketch than a draft at this point, as more is coming later on it…the ending especially is more of a placeholder and the final piece will be far less "meta."

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In the wet market of words,
a poet searches the stalls
desiring to cook something
with a little taste of AIDS —

looks over I have AIDS, sniffs
at this is the name of my pain,
tries to decide what can be done with
there is a flower that grows in plastique
and blooms in blood…

Elsewhere, at another vendor, another poet
is thinking of a feminist message and weighs
the possibilities of Valkyrie against
Knight Rider Barbie, tries to choose, fails,
buys both and moves on.

A third poet
rejects all the proffered produce of love,
the red breath, the silk finger,
the charred emerald eyes, and the seller
throws up his hands in disgust…

"Are you here for the flavor,"
he asks,
"or are you just looking to fill
bellies with ballast?
Food is not just for eating!
Memories come alive in the stomach,
the heart needs more than starch, so
come and get
more than full here — "

On the edge of the market,
on the way home,
a table holds bowls of fresh water,
herbs, fresh fish
soaked in lime juice. 
A sign on the table reads:

Whoever tastes the water
will want to taste the herbs. 
Whoever tastes the herbs
will want to taste the fish.
Whoever tastes the fish
will turn from the market
and go home
satisfied.

Who will stop there? No one today.
There are too many stands serving
easy meals.  Too many things
anyone can chew, swallow, excrete,
and still be left wanting.