there’s a 55-gallon steel drum out back,
not for music, no.
trap queen flips the fries, ice cold Cherry Cola,
haul off what builds up in the grease trap,
wave good-bye to mister manager.
in her travelling lab,
toss it with hydrochloric acid,
convert free fatty acids to esters.
sometimes she gets her hands on glycerin,
turn up the heat, 400 F,
walk away with biodiesel.
trap queen knows not waste.
Artwork by Andrew Herndon.
don’t mistake progression as an all knowing solution,
is a necessary evil.
Opaque forest green accent
smells like the sprinkles of the sun
coat yourself in the Earth’s blanket
bare skin, the way humans should be.
Return to the beginning at the end.
After the extinction of humans,
they’ll make drums out of our skin and bones
xylophones, exquisite cello bows,
that emit a minuscule sound,
a weak growl.
Post humans will absorb
the repercussions of human history.
the new home.
wipe out humanity.
exhaustion of resources.
grease slick on our skin.
shower every three months.
the post humans, they will use us.
as we used each other.
we will be the dogs, the horses, the donkeys.
Artwork by Kazuya Akimoto
two microscopic fish in the puddle,
a sight to see,
next to the grey orange skyline.
eating thrice-stewed femur, suckling blood marrow,
crunch of sinew, oh, you’ll get used to the taste,
they used to eat creatures called chicken and pig and cow
but now we eat anything we can get a hold of,
claws lacerating veins, tug ‘til you see the crimson sauce,
jagged overbite ripping for the trachea, nothing goes to waste.
but don’t be alarmed, it was your aunt’s time anyway.
after all, we relish the everlasting summers,
addicted to carbon dioxide warmth.