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08/10/09 - (1)
Dry Burned Toast
Midway into your August doldrums, You awaken to the only reality you've ever known: Ants are burrowing out of your slice of dry burned toast,
Advancing toward the plate's rim, Which, on closer inspection, are Nazi doom, marching — Six-legged swastikas invading your precarious equanimity,
In an Anschluss calculated to keep your spirit subjugated, Your will to be free demoralized, dehumanized, Force you to resign from the family of mankind.
The entire Aktion takes less than fifteen minutes, During which you're carried off, as writhing body parts, In the mandibles of Einsatzgruppen ants,
Your hair, teeth, heart, arms, feet Heaved atop colossal fires stoked in underground ovens, The cremation only the beginning of your workday,
Prelude to another forced-labor shift at the bottle works, Where you maintain the assembly line's machinery — Grease gun, wrenches, ratchets, pneumatic tools at the ready.
Why you order nothing but dry burned toast, every morning, Must have something to do with your past — The stale bread and nothing-soup that sustained you.
08/10/09 - (1)
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