I work in a
slow-motion
slaughterhouse
each day,
I open my chest
with a bone saw
I surgically excise
a little piece
of my dreams
and eat it
I consume the humble morsel
with all the ceremonial reverence
of a dog finding a piece of popcorn
on the sidewalk
after that,
I stitch myself up
and move on to my other
responsibilities
translating the mystical
scriptures of global cataclysm
into numbers
branding those numbers
into the surfaces of things
and into the hides
of living things
weeping in the corner
staring at the wall
where there is no window,
only spatters of blood
and inlaid cryptic symbols
in thin strips of iron and lead
moving theoretical aberrations
and infeasible methods
of measuring alternate universes
from one side of the killing floor,
sticky with blood,
to another, less appropriate space
on the other end of the plant,
where they can more efficiently
collect dust and neglect,
and rot in moist darkness
trying to write
a chord progression
for the rhythm section
underneath the melody
of never-ending screams
of existential dread
and physical agonies
beyond imagining
until the bell rings
in the late evening
and it’s time to hose off
and crawl into the pod
for a few hours
it’s a gig
it keeps the lights on
it keeps me alive
and devours all of the
best parts of me
each year,
a five-percent raise
helps to offset
fifteen-percent inflation
we’re hiring,
if you’re interested
you can fill out an application
by writing out a promissory note
for your utterly useless soul
on the skin of a stillborn lamb,
in the blood of a fatted calf,
mixed with the brains of a wolf
and the heart of a donkey
leave it behind the barn
beneath your first born
wrapped in swaddling clothes
all of that fuss
is unimportant, really
it only serves
to give the impression
you had to do something
difficult to get in
it creates a sense of
belonging, family,
just like the ankle monitors
and the drone cameras
your shift starts in
ten minutes
©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell
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