Hay Fever and Hard Cider

I can't help but start gagging
Gawking between my bite marks.
Seeing a worm segmented, beside itself,
Body cleaved into the shape of a smile,
Dying, it calls out, "Hah. Gotcha fucker."
That's one bad apple.

You'd think things be in season,
Everything be'd ripe but it's rotten.
Fruit once fresh now among bugs and dirt,
It's being consumed by a new customer
Shoplifting from the source.
Designed for us, but claimed by the creator
--Orchard economics are pretty fickle.

It's not just the rot and horseshit the flies swarm for.

The men of the world
They hate their mothers
They hate their sisters
Some claim
It's in the name of love,
But it's blatant
There is loathing in their core.
Lashing out with the whips
They were given on their birthday,
Their mark is made.
And when they're through,
Their women are adorned
With veils to cover all
Their bruises and gashes.
At the end of the day
The boys sit down for dinner
And say,

"Look Ma. Look how clean my hands are."

Too many times stumbling in
The dark, when so many slumber.
Brushing corners to scratch reality;
Bug bites indicate my waking state.

Again, I find sleep as many stir.
Cyclic listlessness in my bed.
Dreams begin to blur consciousness,
Slurring events, stoking psychosis.

I explore with newly found lucidity,
Clarity largely absent in life.
Direction taken with ease,
I'm never lost for too long.

I keep a beat in my heart
And a song in my breath.
Harmonizing with the world,
We dance with a spring our step.

The audience are just performers waiting
For their set, and music not yet composed.
They'll all take the stage someday,
With fears of jeers silenced in their minds.

For we all sing in our cages,
Even though we may never take flight.
Our wings may be clipped,
But can the same be said of our spirit?

With love we attack each note.
And poor intonation is taken with grace.
And when the beat ceases
Let our requiem sustain.

I run at these walls
With my head bent down
My neck braced for impact
I could stand to loose a few inches
A short stature helps for hiding,
Ducking down, dodging daggers stared.
No bruises or burns from breath cased in fire.
I'm keeping my moisture to lubricate this soul.

Either: I spit words silently not to be noticed,
Or I scream and shout til I entertain an empty room.
In that vacant space, I will make noise until the ghosts kill
themselves all over again. Finally it'll be me and my thoughts
My own entertainment makings that can't ever be bought.

I'll carry myself on my own shoulders if I have to
But don't tell me I never warned you that I wobble
Walking on my hands, or swear with every new blister.
But when I do it, and I'll be strong enough to do it,
Open wide for a foot in your mouth.

Well darlin' ain't that a kick in the teeth.

From a pest's perspective:
I am a god with no tribute;
I am a random force
Of nature, acting out
In ways it just doesn't understand.

A notyetsleeping giant
Who has found a bug in the bed.
Protective of my massive borders,
I may maim or kill, or be merciful;
Never too particular in my motives.

Stumbling drunk with power
I may stagger and stomp,
But my want to retire
May mean a harmless flick-and-a-prayer.
Casting off flies with no line tied
Back to this listless force.

I pinned your note to my wall.
Like a letter slipped in
The slats of my high school locker,
It's distant shout of affirmation.
A shooting star of a smile,
Glimmering arc of white,
There for a moment and then gone.
It may burn up in the atmosphere,
But if a small chunk of something
Survives the impact, let be kept close.
A memento of something
Extraordinary and rare.