Claire Ibarra, Remains
Wasted
(in the spirit of Wastoid Poems, by Mathias Svalina)
Virginia Schultz
My Lover is next-generation farming–digging deep into the past for flavors of forever so that the exponential billions have enough to eat. He/She/It rolls on monstrous tracks of solidified juices stolen from tropical trees trying not to leave a trace and yet destroying the first 6 inches of the soil. A machining that leaves murdered microbes in its wake. It makes a cemetery of the land, a place where we all bow and expect our next meal to germinate and grow. To serve itself to us full of convenience and low prices. It’s made into bushels of false satisfaction baked into squares and then slathered and slathered some more, and then fried within animal fat until the cows do come home, the chickens come to roost, and we all languish amongst our clogged arteries until we just can’t take it anymore. Until there aren’t any mouths left to feed.
(in the spirit of Wastoid Poems, by Mathias Svalina)
Virginia Schultz
My Lover is next-generation farming–digging deep into the past for flavors of forever so that the exponential billions have enough to eat. He/She/It rolls on monstrous tracks of solidified juices stolen from tropical trees trying not to leave a trace and yet destroying the first 6 inches of the soil. A machining that leaves murdered microbes in its wake. It makes a cemetery of the land, a place where we all bow and expect our next meal to germinate and grow. To serve itself to us full of convenience and low prices. It’s made into bushels of false satisfaction baked into squares and then slathered and slathered some more, and then fried within animal fat until the cows do come home, the chickens come to roost, and we all languish amongst our clogged arteries until we just can’t take it anymore. Until there aren’t any mouths left to feed.