the company picnic took place
without much ceremony or celebration
and usually when we weren’t all that hungry
but we didn’t eat much anymore anyway
because sometimes you felt full
when a dream died of natural causes
over the course of a forgettable life
or in the absence of such endeavor
and sickness and satisfaction
pushed blood to limbs all the same anyway
and sometimes we wanted our fingers to bleed what little we had left
into empty cells predicting our demise
with unbearable accuracy
or into agape mouths of those bleeding out
in a similar state of indifference
with hopes of dissolving the muscle and bone
that hoisted us into fluorescent lighting
that brought us life
like gas station heat lamps
our great sacrifice wasn’t that different
than the eternally rotating cases lips and holes
our climax was the feel of scalding grates
the caress of the spatula
and the womb of intestines
from the nest groomed carrion
and their journey for flaccid submission
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