The Irony Of The Food Chain
One Sunday morning,
I skipped church.
I kissed the blue ink
Off the front page
Of the newspaper.
Out of the corner of my eye,
The ink smiled
Like an infant.
From my tear ducts.
I treated the mirror
Like a prostitute.
It blushed my reflection
Into a subliminal comfort.
I abused the heritage
Of Knuckle Walkers.
Dragging my calloused hands
Across gravel and concrete.
From the blushing mimicry.
Into a forest.
Donated by the U.S. Government.
Among the living
Was a hollow log.
Ants used it
As a place to nest.
The moss ridden splinters.
And her young.
Their laughter astonished me
While I urinated onto them.
The Food Chain
A.j. Binash's Other Poems
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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