chicken in a box

i jump off the bed—
cold granito floor
judders my core—
legs & spine ablaze
lower brain
doused in fire.

i dread the
conflagration in my head
as i peck away
at my dreams
like one conditioned
inside an arcade game box.

slot a quarter in the box
& the turntable
i stand upon spins—
a hatch opens where
i peck at feed.

to eat & not to eat.

so long since
anyone’s come
by & i
had a grain or two.
don’t pass me
by / i
say with shopworn eyes.
don’t walk
by / i
will u to slot a coin.

i haven’t fed
in three days—
slot some money / honey
provender’s behind the door.
be a hun / i
may be your child’s nugget some day.
walk by that pinball game
straight into my heart.

What I’m Reading:

How can you show that something is racist, or stupid, or dangerous, or genocidal when nothing means anything? 

— Matt Greene / “On the Rise of ChatGPT and the Industrialization of the Post-Meaning World” / Lithub