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

talk

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

or

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.

Maybe, freedom

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

while saying,

“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

is sweet.

A fly doesn’t have time, for far away

So, I settle

for the shit on the ground

and listen…

then, write it down.

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