the colonel’s secret recipe was never chicken.
it was the algorithm that flattened all birds into golden rectangles.
we worship the holy trinity:
franchise, freeze-dried, forever,
and happy ever after.
the slaughterhouse is a nasdaq-listed temple.
even the soy patty dreams of being absorbed.

you are not a consumer but a numbered chew toy,
your teeth gnashing pink paste labeled "100% real."
the playground ball pit is full of shredded contracts.

happy meal, sad universe.
they genetically modified joy into something dip-able,
then patented the concept of "crunch."

like us,
the chickens are now extinct in the wild,
but thrive as intellectual property.

the freezer aisle stretches into infinity.
a glacier of breaded compliance.
you will die mid-bite and
be replaced by a vending machine.
sorry!
and thanks you very much.
It accepts apple pay.
the sauce packets are inscribed with tiny
terms of service.
by tearing this foil,
you agree to surrender your firstborn’s taste buds

the drive-thru intercom preaches the gospel of "limited time only."
eternity is a mcrib that never leaves the menu.
in the boardroom,
executives wear nugget-shaped ties.
they vote to shrink the portions again.
the stock price rises like yeast in a lab.
somewhere, a farmer drinks
glyphosate tears.
i let yo figure out
where tears and fears come from.
it could be a sit and come.

this is not food but edible capitalism,
each bite a merger, each chew a hostile takeover.

when the last bee collapses
under the weight of monocrop corn,
we’ll simply 3d print the honey.
boneless.
endless.
finger-licking oblivion.

after all,
we are all batter-dipped ghosts
in the deep fryer of progress.
at least,
my post-fraying notes are
the oil never cools.
the conveyor belt never stops.
we are both the meal
and the mouth.
some throw us up,
others
dump us directly into the garbage.
some may need that garbage, but
karma slash hash tag the mysterious hands, says birds may fly and hover over the many garbage hills we create.
a meal like other is never too far away.