Fred Aiken Writing

bright iridescent boxes with friendly faces
selling sugary processed goop-dee-goob,
fill the aisles, fulfilled dreams,
shining bright under fluorescent lighting 
made to mimic nature,
hunt, then gather, then forage,
but just a touch off,
a touch too artificial, crouched down in the aisle where all the Keebler cookies are and find the ones that
dilate my pupils,
get the pipes roaring, head spinning, limbs flying,
all at a discount, all for the low-low-low-low-super-low price of
whatever it is i have in my pocket,
wait,
what is this