cows and horses graze
tails sway from side to side
oh those pesty flies
Sacrificial
Actors
Trying
Anything
Negatively
Scientists
Attacking
The
Abnormal
Nations
Souless
Anger
Thrown
At
Novelists
Sadistic
Animosity
Treated
As
Normality
Swatting
At
The
Accessable
Names
Beside the white oaks of the king's ferry
the heavenly princess resists control,
swatting sand flies off of her acacia crown
Night eyes will not hide a spotted sun
its oenomel translating
Tira's blessings in thorn mimosas,
vistas of aphotic and alabaster stripes,
fingerprints of virtue and violence;
—
Opposites attract
I can't look away
A black armored predator
plodding (as beetles do
when not chewing upon other insects)
around the lip of a bowl,
clapping together stubby wings,
razor sharp mandibles
swatting at the aromatic steam.
Beetles are tanks
they are built to withstand
all in-coming,
Birds don’t eat them,
they taste like baby goo
dipped in crispy aspic.
How small
can a natural born killer get?
The beetle tentatively,
marches around the edge of a bowl
as if hunting its own trail.
Will it find enough of itself
to make a decent beetle meal?
These and other questions of girth,
capacity and predatory prowess
must wait,
for it has fallen
into the tomato soup.
This particular beetle
cannot swim,
perhaps its mini motor was out of gas
or its tank too heavy to float?
I put the soup aside,
not that hungry anymore.
she stands at the podium
smiling that kind of smile
you only learn after
too many mirrors and not enough truth.
every word that leaves her mouth
sounds like a coin dropping in a machine
that’s already broken.
she waves her hand
like she’s swatting away
the stink of her own sentences—
but the air just thickens,
and the room begins to choke.
you can’t actually believe it,
can you, sweetheart?
those polished lies,
those press-release fairy tales
made from the bones of the poor—
you sell them like perfume
and call it patriotism.
I’ve seen hustlers with more honesty
in a bar at closing time,
men bleeding truth into their beers
while she stands there
selling corruption
like it’s the latest fashion
out of D.C. culture.
she talks about freedom
with the leash in her hand,
about honor
with both palms dirty.
and still—
some fools will clap,
because the light hits her just right,
because the lie sounds better
than the life they’re living.
but the rest of us,
the ones down here
with cracked knuckles and rent due,
we know a con when we see one—
and hers reeks
of the White House carpet
and the devil’s perfume.
swatting dragonflies
the little girl discovered
no fire on their tongues
he didn’t blink
when the light caught his face—
just stared like a dog too long in the rain.
no prayers,
no cries,
no family on the concrete bench.
he killed for sport,
like swatting flies—
and still the world made room for him.
the guards were tired,
the chaplain bored.
death smelled like disinfectant and steel.
he coughed once.
then again.
then silence.
nobody wept—
not even the devil.
I hate it when a flea
takes a liking to me
and keeps darting in front of my eyes.
I try swatting it away,
but she thinks it's play,
and so keeps it up - till she dies.
Passing up stinging sun and flies.
The trouble is, nature’s outside.
Flowers I find in frames.
I recline in conditioned air.
Not at all what haiku ought to be,
where the outdoors is dreamy;
buzzing with hummingbirds,
flies and sun burning.
Not in trouble with nature,
outside of it all.
Air conditioning,
ice cubes, tall glass
and coca-cola.
It’s all part of the plan,
and a newspaper -
just in case
a flotsam fly
needs a swatting
because the sun
threw up its hands
and the bug declared
squatter’s rights.
I have a problem - the newspaper’s online.
Air conditioning is breezy, but I’m not fine.
A walrus, a whale, and a wildebeest
Have a few things in common to comment on:
They've never read Byron, or Shelley, or Keats,
They don't like asparagus, broccoli, or beets,
Or waiting in line to buy popsicle treats.
And that's about it,
No phenomenon.
The wildebeest, a.k.a. the gnu,
For no rhyme or reason, of course,
Has never been heard to bleat, bray, or moo,
And is in no way akin to a horse.
His main disadvantage, as he will avow,
The one he's most often upsat with:
His tail is too short for fanning his brow
Or even for swatting a gnat with.
When swatting a mosquito,
What you’re trying to prevent
Is an itchy bite and no one
Would object to your intent.
Yet swatting’s definition
Has evolved into a threat,
Whereby false reports made to the police
Are sent without regret.
The judges now presiding
In Trump’s trials, it appears,
Have been targets of such swatting –
Something new in their careers.
Just how low these swat fanatics
Seem to go should bring us pause,
Since there’s utter disregard
For all our well-established laws.
We should shudder when we think of
Those who, under MAGA’s sway,
Will bring anarchy upon us
Which we cannot swat away.
Most kittens are cuddly; all kittens are cute.
That they make our hearts melt few can refute.
Some kittens are frisky while some are demure.
For many of us, they have great allure.
I love fluffy kitties that sit on my lap.
I’m sure not too fond of kittens that snap.
I once had a kitty that swiped at my feet
when I walked past her, but then she grew sweet!
With time, she stopped swatting and biting at me,
and she became gentle eventually.
Sometimes so nicely a kitten starts out,
but then once it’s grown, it’s far from devout.
Like people, kittens are different when
while growing, they show personalities then.
My dearest sweet kitty that curled up and purred
next to me now is a little absurd.
He’s rarely around and though he’s pretty,
I miss how he was as a cat itty bitty.
Appreciate kittens before they’re grown cats.
You just might end up with big lovely brats!
I dyed my hair red
now he’s dying for me
the flames leaping
no shame
no shame
he is wide-eyed
puppy-tailed
i’ll lead him by the leash
release him
release me
can you see us
on the front cover
of a trashy romance
i dyed my hair red
oh the flames
be flying
I’m swatting him away
the grays no-mattering
it’s a crying shame
we must grow old
oh the boldness
the brave
we’re not dead yet
only dyed
tied up for kindling
a novel kind of love
it burns
s h a m e l e s s l y
hot
6/29/2022
I've watched you brush off flies for years
Sometimes allowing them to linger and feed off your sweetness
Sometimes swatting them into splattered spots
I am happy to be your butterfly as you tell me, though I fear I will just be another fly.
You keep my wings painted, and I will keep the vomit off my hands
This love that keeps the flowers blooming
One day I was walking through the woods,
Since it was the quickest route to my house.
As I approached my house I heard a loud CRASH!
This was pequilier because I had been living alone for years now.
I cautiously approached my front door.
Although I was quiet, my door had other plans.
CREEEEAK.
I prayed that whatever or whoever was in my house was hard of hearing.
I continued to enter into my house.
I don't believe that it heard me, since the noises continued.
I couldn't locate where the sound was coming from so I began to check the rooms.
I kicked each door down with a BOOM!
PING! I heard from the kitchen.
The second I figured out where it was coming form I dashed to the location of the sound.
I entered the room to see a possum rummaging through my stuff.
I grabbed my trusty broom and began swatting at it.
a loud HISS from the possum startled me but I continued to shoo it out of my house.
It chewed through the insulation on my windows so I replaced it with a piece of woods in hopes that it wouldn't come back.
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