What did I ever do
to deserve a world where
avocados are underripe while they're overripe,
pens cede before their ink is spent,
rivers run dry, aquifers deplete?
What choice do I have
but to opt out of the technocratic misery,
overlorded by the Slither Circle,
to make my sways of the sun replete?

My country has a Military Complex
that fought wars over bananas.
My country prints Monsters on Money,
a desecrated spell to spill nature's blood
and use it in every commodity:
the ink, the encasements, the coatings,
the stains, the sealants, the wrappers,
even the food and medicine.

What did I do?
I ate. I wrote. I used.