By Mike O’Connell 

in the night
cloistered in the cold
secured in a styrofoam tomb
my nachos became
a single thing
a gluttonous mass
welded together
with a cheesy looking
tightening over a
lump of stuff that
(with a little imagination)
became remains of chips
sporting little chunks of
repurposed animals
clenched together
waiting for a liberating
globular warming that will
never come
soon to be released into
the wild
looking like it might be able
to fend for itself
as moldy temple
built for worms
taxed by time
until oblivion overwhelms it
sends it away
from memory and eveything
ghost-less and
forever gone
a temporary anomaly
once described as



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