It was the glaze molasses of sweet honey suckle tang, combined with MSG smothered upon the Chinese Chicken Wang. Slowly cooked within the kitchen of the oriental flavor, tickled my taste buds beyond all abnormal behavior. Watching the China-man create such a majestic, fast food in wax bags who would have guessed it. As an obsession arose over the days to come, I was incapable of completing any school work till I had obtained some, the sauce of the Asian flair, would slowly simmer in the bamboo pot, as I’d continue to stare.


Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, the wing fetish remained inside my mouth, incapable of fulfilling the hunch. The sauce of pure heavenly divine would drip from the Chinese chicken Wing and freeze time. Captivate and retardate numerous minds. Hold me hostage until I was totally sublime, the straight jacket of flavor refused to un wind, the wing from the china man who was perpetually blind, his fucking sauce that was handed down his long family line.


Conversing with the cook in an attempt to adapt such cooking marvels for myself, he’d only refuse to say: “no you’d better go ask some one else”. In my sleep the Chinese wing would haunt me, the tangy sauce bottle I would only see, and the shaking and the baking of the marinating bag, such a utopic sight that could not be sold over no price tag. For the glaze molasses of sweet honey suckle tang, all shot up with MSG could only be enjoyed upon the Chinese Chicken Wang.