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August 15, 2012


It's sick and pathetic--
I get annoyed by insects,
hang ribbon fly paper and
watch sentient creatures
wave feelers, arms, legs
as they starve over days stuck
to jaundiced chandeliers of death.
Tonight they got me back. A kamikaze
fly--hard-shelled and red, tiny enough
to waltz through screen squares--flew
straight into my eye with a vengeance.

Yet I can't stop killing them. They bug me.
They are slow and so easy to crush against
my skin or wherever they happen to land.
It's not satisfying to hear that crunch
but it lets one know the job is done.

I roll the corpses like boogers between
fingertips and drop them on the table.
Then the ants come and carry them away,
each a miniature Hercules hefting a load
many times its own size and weight as I sit
fat and content atop the food chain, peeling
wrappers, mixing powders to nourish my brain.
"Duck eggs," neighbor and coworker Tim says.
Bigger, smarter, more varied diet than hens.
"You are what you eat," he avers. In that case
I'm Clif Bars and Emergen-C, the butt end
of a giant salami and Irish cheese, factory
farmed chicken eggs and a case of Beck's
stretched out to last more than a week.
I smash another fly and feed it to the ants.
I hope nothing in the night is coming for me.