Abattoir

(Poetry Scales 2)

Line up in the chute
Vie for choice position
Pursue pleasures offered here
Don’t look out that nonexistent window

Numb to the auto-apocalypse
Assembly line production of meat
Aroma in the packing house more feces than food
Are we losing our taste to be free?

Wirelessly connected? Or tethered to the teat
That keeps us trapped in the slaughterhouse?
Haughtily ascetic are you faithlessly religious
Passing the exit on your way to the captive pistol bolt?