A litany of items furnish the table—
The pill bottle is standing, its orange hue roaring in the glare of the
lamp;
The penknife is caked with accumulations of sediment
Discharged from the end of a marijuana pipe;
Long thrown out ago, that glass cylinder
In the haze of a weed-plagued mania—
Scribbles laden with incessant schizo-babble quake through moth-eaten
notebooks
That I can’t stomach to part with;
Electric odds and ends hum with the thumping of factory centers (miles
off,
Testaments to blood-baths and other assorted massacres)…
Grocery store prices scream violent red
Amid the piles of mcintosh apples
Corralled at the grocery store,
We circulate through and wash our hands of sin
As the checkout machine demands sacrifice
(Of some kind, through time, fibers, or bile)
And come home, expecting
Exploitation.
We went to the market;
You did not—
Now come stock sin like the beast that you are.