a poem by V. Fryer
The Heat Rises
I can eat food served behind
pre-packaged plastic windows --
remove the film over the dessert
and microwave the flimsy plastic
tray until the heat rises.
and weak translations of the real.
It's a hassle to consume, and I've got
more important things to do.
You eat food straight out of the
ground? My dear, how primitive.
surely you and your chemicals
are heaven-sent. We are dying
to produce more, create things, and
write our treatises on being
without ever actually living.
the history of all of us, but
we try so hard to separate
from all the imperfections. With
the sterile plastic and the faux gloss,
we sell ourselves cheap as the heat rises.