Corn chips, on the cob,
in a can, the mash-bill
of his bourbon he was
expecting, even the feed
of cows turned steak, hamburger
he ate no second thought,
but then his soda, ketchup
(all his condiments),
and the cough syrup, taking
it all down, a cornbread
brain, his bones pureed,
the once-detested creamed
corn simmered, reduced to weight-
bearing—kernels the new
hemoglobin tumbling
through phloem toward pancreas
and broken down, absorbed,
pulsed red, red avarice
the chain to marrow, and if
you look for his grave (not yet
but later)—a stone within
the monocultural field
of stalks stooped with the weight
of massive, pest-resistant
ears—you may find it dead-
center of an earthy
American feedlot.



Image: By Albrecht Fietz, via Pixabay.