I’m a Broiler

chickens birth eggs

boiled chickens birth boiled eggs

i’m a broiler

and evidently

my skin is always chicken skin

i believe everything

i cry only saliva

i salivate a lot

slippery organic sorrow

so utterly transparent

the ultimate essence of personhood

turned inside out

in the slaughterhouse i traverse

down the killing and stunning track

my feet attached to metal hooks

toward the water stunning pool

in which my head is an egg boiled

in the hatred of your eyes

head down

all dreams drip into my eyes

and i understand what gravity is:

a slow dance

in the blue glow of the ultraviolet light

in the arms of the lifters dressed in protective coveralls

blue light keeps the broilers calm

even if they fall to the floor half burnt

even if they are tossed alive among the dead

and so in broiler theology

blue light is the source of ultimate love

in the carcass box where the laws governing those still alive

stretch and retreat like an obscene invitation

in the turning albumen of the inspecting veterinarian in the keyhole

no teeth

spittle drying in the beak

that has had to say “good night” too many times

in the 100% uncertain stunning mechanism

good night, belt

good night, protective coveralls

good night, wedge-shaped piece

that can read fear into something grand and expressionless

fortunately the cutter is a serious boy

the meaning of all seriousness:

the mercy

that breaks the neck like a pleasurable bite

the mercy

that slices the vein and drains the blood

the mercy has a white sleeve and an arm

tattooed with a heart

small but aflame

the intimate peak of isolation

on the island of lost children

where we don’t grow into adults in the absolute sense of the word

just into something ready

there are bottles floating in the stunning pool

they contain scrawled messages

sometimes bottles make it past the surveillance system

and end up in the ocean

where the brave Nemo and his companions

release their spawn into them

while pondering the mysteries of love

he hates broilers

because we’re given feed made from baby fish

forgive us, Nemo

that’s all the messages say

forgive us

don’t wink at hatred

don’t send any more bomb threats

we can’t read

and we have no time to learn

we don’t live for years

just weeks

like insects

only sans their latinate names

since no taxonomy

would recognize us as an independent species

and that’s good, since even though

59,794,239,000 of us are killed per annum

we aren’t threatened by extinction

or genocide

or murder

because we don’t exist

to be anything but

swollen lunch meat, 1.6 kilograms in 48 days

if i were, i would probably know

what existence is

and what it isn’t

and why the sky was always blue in childhood

cut

and calming

like a lesson

about the survival of the fittest