id rather be an ant

in a poem of intenstinal embrace where the hive swarms the homes disgrace the poet comes like a bug from the sands like a rotted hare swollen by her young from these arid lands the colony reaches up like a broken stair of insect rung its unsanitary its unhealthy apocalyptic grammar and no silk sheets as if its impossible to imagine heaven without indoor plumbing or shoes on every feet wait til it all falls down ill be here to take out semicolons periods and dashes replace them with crumbling decay the best poems are written on pieces of trash that blow like tumbleweeds that pass like vagrants through this town every day i want conneticut i want lush green golf courses dreams where everyone smiles and says oh look at the moon so lovely i want commas to tell me how to read i need punctuation yr words are golf couse weeds there is no irony in east egg where the lighthouse flickers so far away here you horde words like food like another pile of stolen loot while we dance the charleston and crush ants under foot sometimes things just come to me i dont hear periods in that voice it comes to me in letters black ants who labour for the whim of the queen and the good of the colony i cant just ask is this where the clause ends off is this a question or a pause they come through me im just another ant scrounging seeds in desert sands where golf balls never land but we ants have a way of getting in the strongest walls have cracks where we can march our armies in golf courses will dry and wither and we ants will feed and gatheri think ill dedicate this to the girl who is bored and missing the giggling nihilist Written March 3rd, 2002 © on Mar 03 2002 04:51 AM PST   0 • 10