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
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