A Poem by Jennifer Hollie Bowles

Excuse me, misanthropic Monsanto,
but the anti-Christ is manifesting
in your herbicide glysophates and poly-
urethanes, and this black-soul garbage
truck your pushing is an apocalypse,
far worse than horns and dogma or even
instant catastrophe, because you\’re the
needle-eye of acquiescence in politics,
the archetypal lobbying whore-scum
of profit who even tries to genetically
modify Cerebus into a six-headed
plastic homunculus of malignant
greed, but what you don\’t know,
misanthropic Monsanto, is that many
of us know, and we have voices, rising
from every corner of every detail
of earth and life you attempt to destroy,
and for every ten screams that get lost in
an aspartame cup, one son or daughter
of a Vietnam Vet will rise from the orange
ashes and become an agent — aware of
your casualties and seedless goddamn lies.