Days are thoroughly minced by beeps of my cell phone.
I feel like ground beef.
Spices fall on me: carrots, potatoes, onions and garlic
And the fat, sweaty chef from underground cooks me gleefuly.
I bet people feel like fire burns their backs sometimes,
Like hot oil boils and claws at their tender bodies.
I bet people feel like ground beef sometimes.
Don’t we all feel processed?
We’re made up of ingredients, some of them exotic — disgusting.
They cling to us, inserting bits and pieces of themselves
Between our armpits, knees, and inside our mouths, noses, ears —
Every hole is filled with flavor. Lick yourself for proof!
You’re so delicious you don’t know yourself anymore.
I feel greasy.
Throw me onto a wall and I’ll stick there, grease dripping.
Dogs would smell my hair miles away. They’d drool.
I’d stare up at the blue dome of heaven and try to remember
Days when I walked the earth inconspicuous to noses.
Did I fly back then? Is it the wind on my face that I reminisce?
Now I sit here, waiting for that yummy cell phone beep.
Now I’m begging to be fried. Oh, please, make me crispy!
Pour the heavy butter on my face ’til I can’t open my eyes
Or leave me in the microwave for my juices to bubble.
Garnish me, oh sweaty chef, satisfy my heart’s desire.
Serve me on a golden platter, sizzlin’, smokin’;
Gorge on me ’til I’m gone.