Bugs in My Home System

Does anyone else feel guilty
When stepping on a bug?
I know I do.
Somewhere between perception
And footfall
Is the embarrassment
Over thinking myself God enough
To choose death for something.
I don’t know why I,
A renter of earth,
Feel I am more entitled to this hut
Than a creature born to dirt.
I don’t know why I
Defend so strongly
Things I haven’t even built.

To try to alleviate my opportunities
To confirm my murderous ways,
I leave the corpses of the fallen
Creepy super crickets,
You know, the ones capable
Of bounding over skyscrapers,
In the same spot they fell
To my apology cloud of Raid.
I hope these bodies
Act as wards to other crawlers
In my attempt to come to a
Brute force agreement
Over property ownership.
Alas, these fuckers keep jumping into my bathroom.

Occasionally it is a spider spun into my path.
When they come to my attention
I treat them like military veterans.
I thank them for their service
In defending my skies
And fending off the annoyances
On the front lines
Of the theater I need protected;
And then I smash their benefits.
Luckily there’s no A.A.R.P. for arachnids
So to crush the eight legged
Requires not an act of Congress
But just one shoe.

If the sneaker ever comes to the other foot
And a stomp from flying saucer comes my way
Then I shall just determine galactic beings
As keepers of the peace in the karma games.
My only excuse to offer you or E.T.
Is that I don’t have the memory capacity
To recall which bugs are a threat
To my woodwork or would work
My immune system until it collapsed.
And I’ll be honest, I can’t really know,
With just a glance, which body markings
Denote toxic fangs or which creatures
Come only in swarms. I’m not familiar enough
With the millions of classifications or orders;
I don’t even know if it would matter if I were.
Hell, I can’t even tell who of my own species is poisonous.

beyond the noise

The music lies beyond the noise

The art is waiting, with perfect poise

For you to scratch beyond the surface

And find imperfection

Perfect.

surrounded
by
cold water under
grey skies, the only
picture of clarity
for miles
and 
miles

Silly Bunny

she read words (something most bunnies cannot)
when she did, she felt fluffy
fluffy clouds overhead
her head in the clouds
a dangerous place for bunnies
easy for eagles and hawks
Silly bunny! flying is for the birds
for the birds spread wings and hunt
hide, silly bunny
scurry to your warren
stay away from the ocean, too
it is too profound for you

I'll know it's love not when

I’ll know it’s love not when
we share the same interests,
but when you sacrifice time
for me because I am more
precious than the limited ticks
on the looming clock.

I’ll know it’s love not when
I shiver from your deft fingers,
lust mistaken for young love,
but when “I love you” is not
just three words strung
together for my reassurance.

I’ll know it’s love not when
plastered smiles are forced
rather than from your heart,
but when I am intellectually
challenged and where you don’t
have to agree with all I say.

I’ll know when I’m in love
and that is not now.

Third Attempt pt. 2

We’re going out of entrances
because he who waits despairs,
hopping here and there like a dumb
bird on a branch - but if you’re going
to be up there, at least climb the tree
and get me a real coconut!

We’re coming in at exits on a high
note, growing ‘til it reaches the heavens,
and if it isn’t a violin, then it has
to be a cello. Put out your claw
and start talking about happiness
staining the ceiling - scream about it, even,
until night isn’t just a dark thing,
until it actually acquires the light.

War Elephant

You wanted me to fight your battles,
To help you wage war
Against enemies unseen, unknown,
Against ghosts and monsters,
Against rumors and gossip.

You were tricked
By the rumble of my steps,
Didn’t realize I’m better suited
To circus life —
For smiles and laughs,
Clowns with fake tears,
And children tugging at my ears.

(I am not
A war machine;
I am going to die,
Freeze in your attempt
To cross mountains
That exist only in
Your head.)

fix you

take these words with you when you leave

and stuff them in some dusty corner of your heart

behind the crack that consumes you

and remember

i will never try to fix you

not like a clock

with its gears and machinery

because though your words and actions

are mechanical

and the look in your eyes is bleak

your heart still beats

driven by a force 

too pure 

too broken

too human

and i will never try to fix you

Perspective

I passed out,
left the world like a balloon with a cut cord 
and woke up above the earth,
looking down at the swirling clouds
and the colored land. 
I couldn’t see the lights from up there;
the sun was too brilliant.
I couldn’t hear anything
in the vacuum of space, 
and I found myself turning away
from the inhabited earth
to see the beauty of the stars,
lost in the marvelous nature of the unknown.
I paused for a second, finally understanding 
the true tragedy of my species.

If I could live inside any
Part of my body, I wouldn’t
Want to be in my eyes, I
Wouldn’t want to bathe in
Tears, wouldn’t want to be
Blinded by lights.

It never would be in my
Mood to live inside my heart
I wouldn’t love the smells
Of thick blood, flowing in
And out of swollen tubes.

I would take pleasure
Inside my mind,
In my brain. I would
Explore every piece of
My point of views, I
Would manually fix my
Thoughts and stop them
From killing my soul.

If I could write love into
a poem, my days of writing
would end. For the definition
in its simplicity exceeds
the barrier of language
in thought, and feeling.

How am I supposed find my way
through this maze with no direction
knowing my every thought has lead me
far astray
and my foolish heart is ever
less trustworthy still

The Present Climatic Equinox

Saturday’s colder smiles unravel and fold,
with a heavy-hearted account of uncertainty
a melted serenade, branded turquoise and gold,
carves circles in the ground where you used to be.

Fleeing claws of once a home, gutted from memories, 
carrying only cross and treatise to your name
the radiant misfortunes of souls on stormy seas 
share solely with you the bitter taste of religious disdain

The gypsy lives and times, rang out in talisman bells,
slipped up in the gossamer night by your windowsill.
Parading and plaguing your virgin sunrise spells,
beneath martyr solitude letters rest your bloodied sigil

if words were spirits

words become
martyrs
as
blood splatters
upon a page -

… use them
for poetry

… but dance
them diligently
as if
they were spirits.

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