The cup is close to full.
The time is now to pull
Fairchild's loaded gun
out into the sun.
Trigger cocked and ready.
Rifle aimed and steady.
The hold releases
shattering pieces
of myth and fancy, once
his warm blanket. He hunts
with the Big Boys now.
Charlie taught him how.
Three hundred human beings congregate, on schedule, at a
spooned-out crossroad to passively confront the culinary
nonentites of the has-been and the would-be kitchen corps:
Archeologists unearthing not-so-sacred cows. Antiquity exhumed!
Recyclers rejoicing... Algae cultures yield a bumper crop!
Budget cutters acclaiming... The coming of the rubber egg!
Remember when vegetables were green and meat was brown?
Now, it's just the other way around. There are no appeals
from government surplus, or salvage, or out-of-code meals.
The filling station acquires the supply and services the demand.
If you would revolt, your success would be measured on a
non-negotiable check printed on stiff toilet paper, or worse.
Better to suffer this defecation of the dietetic powers that be.
Three hundred zombies drift away from the masticated mirage that
really wasn't there. Feeding time is over. Back to your cages!
Naked came I into this world, and
into this present plane of existence.
I happen to know this, having born
witness to my own daughter's birth.
Discounting some mucous coating,
the darling debuted in the raw.
Taking my own mother and father at
their solemn word, I did not arrive
in any of the following curious ways:
Hatched, sprouted, immaculate conception,
frog-to-prince, or beamed down by Aliens.
And reliably, I did not arrive clothed.
But naked shall I depart, no doubt,
once my withered and wizened corpse is
trucked over to the discount crematorium.
Burned to a crisp, then worked into the soil
surrounding a sturdy Saguaro, I shall
enter into the next plane of existence.