Old Potato

by Mikey Sivak

Photo by Bmerva via Wikimedia Commons. Creative Commons: Some rights reserved.

How many lie hidden buried,
Potato Gods all starch and earth-skin,
humongous and horrible in vegetable
inanimateness, beside centuries old
foundations of American fieldstones,
and strange archaic mortars, built
by hands and joints of animal flesh
that had been quick in youth but slowly grew
arthritic, gnarled as root matter only uglier,
in corporeal spoilage?

Have our generations lived and died above
potato matrons, brown skinned earth
queens, silent mothers griping generations
of replicate daughters knowing-nothing, but
if something, then nothing save the freezing
and flexing of a lightless dirt-world; have
our American centuries of toil, self-enslavement,
the produce and industry of man-minds in
tissular automata passed meaningless
as the extra-dimensional?

When we found the American religion, shall we
bury our dead in potato patches so that
when man rises he might carry a potato up with him,
to feast upon its dense white flesh, swallow raw
the stoic meaninglessness of its existence,
or place him in a field of dead writers, farmers,
messianic bastards, and tuber shaped infants,
which had rotted in life and in death became
somehow sterile with mummified flesh, brown
as the earth, stretched across snow white bones?

Mykl Sivak is a writer and artist unfortunately based in New Haven, Connecticut. His writing and art have appeared in a number of international indie zines, journals, and anthologies. He used to work as an animation artist for a global mass media corporation but he doesn’t do that anymore. Mykl is an atheist, a nihilist, and an anarchist, which means he doesn’t believe in anything. It is his opinion that you shouldn’t either. http://mykls.tumblr.com/


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