I am the antichrist of vegetables
me, my friends, and I
We are what isn’t good for you-
feelings and dreams to poison
your body,
ideas and thoughts to poison
your soul.
The brussel sprouts of an America
where bean sprouts and tofu
will make you whole.
Vegetables, mindless,
their purpose in life to be
picked from the garden
peeled, cooked and eaten.
Vegetables, chemically altered
to look and to think and to feel
as the rest of them do.
Not for us the fashion shows or
catalogue shopping.
We toy with ideas like anarchy,
supporting revolution.
We have no catechism, no trinity.
Sure, there might be a god
But what or who is he?
Yet at least we aren’t deluded,
cooked like other vegetables,
leeched of color and of strength,
luckily we were uprooted
before we could be gathered up,
processed and molded, soon to be food.
We weren’t fed on pesticides,
our minds unclouded by chemicals
soaked up from a superficial society.
We are the antichrists of vegetables,
plucked apart from the rest of the bed.
We survive together, staying alive,
refusing to be eaten with the rest of
the salad.
