Holy Mana

Take-out responsibly.

Again I strafe into my microwave at night, like--owl-like.

Staring at the ‘sustenance,’ it bubbles and pops on a spike.

Toiling over evening missions, always such heat checks,

the soggy-sweet saltines on contract, perennially up next.

How I’d parlay away an hour of melatonin time to reflect--

on a disgusting, revoltingly cold bowl of a green o’pest.

I’d without restraint matrimony beef macaroni… HOLY!

Gulping it down, I wield only cold elixir from a lake phony.

My blood--the lifeline through my arteries, faux-processed,

but this foodstuff gives me hysterics, I choose my own sacred.

They tell me I’ll pass for 70 at halftime, horseshit inside-out,

but I’m the one munching with a smile, never-budging doubt.

I know I wouldn’t take back a bite, however mushy it all was.

For nothing, no not a thing! makes me feel like sad take-out does.

Author's Note

> i<3mymicrowave; i<3takeout
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