Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies
like a banana. Carolyn kills both
by slapping them between her ruthless hands.
I lunch on a hotdog burrito, ignoring what dies
while I eat. The mechanically separated path
of nameless chickens’ and pigs’ flesh can
disquiet my enjoyment upon contemplation.
I can’t afford to feed myself sans mutilation.
By the flea’s argument, Drosophila melanogaster
marries old peaches and pears. In our case,
merely batches of beer. Within last dribbles,
in cans waiting to be recycled, they fester.
Trying to sleep, she’s sure they’re on her face.
To lull her off, my passes, buzzing, and nibbles.
