Monday, July 20, 2015


(near ames, iowa)
I can't eat anything anymore. Ten million chickens
a month, fed on diets of feather meal and cattle brains,
unable to move, in festered confines of chicken cells.
It's no wonder I don't know who I am. Cancer rates
among poultry workers are abnormally high, and
chicken diseases are rampant. Want fries with that?
Oh all you meat and potato men, let me watch you
gut-shoot a deer and then process it for food. Please
let me watch. Potato farmers in Iowa like killing
things they call game-meat, and they defend
by saying 'at least we eat it.' Look out the
back-barn door, there's another one.
'That bullet in your rifle, young man, it does not opt you
out of an insane system  -  your neo-hunter-gathering
 -  it only puts you deeper in.' That's what the guy with
the clipboard said taking the survey about vegetarian 
living. They laughed his fat ass out of the mall.
One kid there, I thought he was a guy but he thought he
was a girl and it turned out he was a girl who wanted to be
a guy and I figured sure anyway, everyone's got to eat.
They're funny like that in these faraway places, and
funny like that too on these strange farmland scenes.

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