Red Violence of Hunger

A puff of air
in a vacant room.
Cows among me chewing
the expensive cud that
spells my doom
Lack of ability
to procure, satisfy,
without food I will die
but why?
I don’t like this system,
truth to me seemingly lies.
I sit at the table
in the public procurer place
where men and women
who know nothing of the hunt,
know nothing of stone tools
or the saving grace of oasis,
whose green American men
suitably act as modern spears and snares;
slap a five on the counter,
slightly sweaty palms,
uneven breathing,
a second pie with coffee
guaranteed to live another day.
with luxury.
I continue at the table
awaiting my fate,
dozing off,
to ease the pain
of my poor pockets
and indelible appetite.


I know, this is an unfair poem. But hunger brings a certain angst in me, and it is better to let out generalities rather than ruminating on unpleasant physical sensations.

5:40 Appetite, Evening, Hunger, Money, Poem, Poetry p.m.,

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Cory Garcia
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