Tuesday, March 18, 2014


ants. a whole bloody lot of them.
when all of them cry at midnight
the earth swells up in waves
and many think that the earth is crying
but it’s really the ants.
there’s one climbing up the grandfather clock
through the round plate of time
with memories of forgetting in its mouth
and a pistol aimed at its heart
because it’s at that tiny blank space between the dot and the stroke of i
that funny things happen
I have noticed them happening lately

ants creep and crawl along timeless tombs of moss,
cross Rubicon
and march away to crude, ancient eternity
mist eat up old elephant
six seasons of longing,
nine rings of rectitude
lash out of angry eyes of blind judges
the phantoms act their parts out,
the puppeteer takes out her trombone
and tigers turn to their own shadows for mercy

And all these happen
because dogs in dogged coitus on midnoon swelter
take us through sixteen million eclipses
and to sparrows who wanted to be Bach
but settled for crumbs instead
like our blind maestro who burned his violin
like the anger of Caliban when Orpheus looks back
like heartless roosters hooting for Cinderella
like Laika, blessed, boiled by the specter of science
like mother and father who make love every moment to create time
like you looking at me now
like me writing of you looking at me now
like our seven mirrored mirage
like the fox whose oversexed uncle died
like the music of hemlock
like fury, madness and slaughterhouse miracles
like Jupiter mauling Juno’s breasts
like hatred
like terror
like this relentless monstrosity of decay and defeat

but there are more ants on earth than things worth knowing in life and death
and when they start weeping
the world drowns every night

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