the problem that flies have, is that they eat shit for a living
and in 48 hours, they can’t get enough
they land on the walls, and watch the warm ice-cream fountains
and the little insects, listen to secrets, while cleaning their faces, with their feet.
Where have those feet been…?
and that mouth?
Animals, make a pretense at grooming
if not, just to attract the opposite sex, so a female fly, can lay her fertilized eggs
in a cat’s bunghole
where her larva
will have something to eat
after the old pussy has died.
I feel like a fly on the wall
waiting for rotten fruit to drop
dirty talk, said innocently
because it was consumed with the truth.
Who really knows what we should do with our short lives?
Perfect planning, of a life with guarantees
doesn’t guarantee, much of anything.
just to walk on a wall, and not be seen
and not need to congregate with other flies
on the same piece of poop
or the gift,
to capture the comedy
like the buzz, written down—
to give meaning
to the pile of shit
that smells differently.
Nobody bats an eyelash when swatting a fly
and nature doesn’t cry, when it kills 200,000 with a SMACK
Only your own kind, screams for justice
at the injustice
of murder, by human hands
or the absence
of an umpire, who could make the plays fair.
Flies are ready for death
because they make their living in it
they raise their children in it
People do, the same thing
“life is precious”
“but what about the shitty parts?” I ask.
We all have a calling
We find it with our ears, mouth, and nose
We eat it
listen for it
see shit, everywhere
and write it down.
though, the great American novel is far away
its distant smell
A fly doesn’t have time, for far away
So, I settle
for the shit on the ground
then, write it down.