It is so easy and sanitized in that kitchen.
A trail of misery, a web of terror.
The baker’s disconnection does not absolve him.
It does not change the fact that he is the arachnid at the center of it all.
Consider the blueberry muffins he is making this morning.
The sun is not yet up, and yet…
Already the brutality, the brutality.
The powder clings to him like blood on Macbeth.
The smell, can’t you smell death beneath that sweetness?
The ingredients come together
and lose their independence,
that last measure of dignity.
Somewhere, in the wilds of Maine.
Stand blueberry bushes stripped of their fruit and their dignity.
The fruits that they were once so proud of…
They are now in a glass container on a stainless steel shelf.
And there are fields somewhere that are now barren.
It was not enough, that reaper-like
We scythed them all down.
We crushed them up next.
Boxed them up. Called it flour…
A homonoym to a symbol of living beauty.
We robbed the cows children of their mothers milk.
With uncaring machines.
Can’t you hear that haunting, pained, longing
“MOOOooooo.” Trailing off into nothing,
because it is pointless to resist.
It is all so pointless.
When they come and take your milk away.
And the eggs, oh the eggs.
They could have been somebody.
They could have been some chicken.
If only they’d been fertilized.
They would not sit in that styrofoam container,
terrible in their simalarities.
And the sugar…
We did indeed raise Cane.
Only that it might be chopped down, down, down.
It is speciesism only
that prevents us from calling it what it is
How could something so sweet come from this.
Do not hide
behind the fact
that it was all made for this and raised for this.
Does that make it better
Your blueberry muffins.
They are a symbol of your decadence.
They are the epitome of your arrogance.
We must stand with our muffiny brothers.
We must rise up with our confectionary sisters.
The revolution is now.