(no subject)

[kitsch_my_grits]

"Cicada Supper"

Dry flies sing a summer song.
Nature's occasional accompaniest
raising collective, clicking voice to the hills
and the sky
and a god granting life only in small doses.

The tune is always the same.
Buzzing tenor on the breeze,
reverberating through the trees,
shaking limb and leaf and sanity.
Floating over field and holler
an auditory force, so tangible.
The yellow veined wingbeats
on my eardrum.
The crunch of discarded shells,
beneath bare toes...
sensoral, visceral, edible.

If I open my mouth wide enough,
I can taste rich vibrations thumping my tongue and teeth.
If I open my mouth wide enough
I can swallow the whole brood
and feel a thousand bulguing red eyes
peering at my insides.
Tiny, pin-prick legs take hold
to hunkder down
and wait.

My cicada supper will digest
and gestate
for seventeen years.
A new breed of nymphs spawned,
indifferently making their way into red and blue veins,
infesting every inch of me.
growing, changing, waiting -

Waiting to emerge from the pits of my stomach
the tips of my fingers,
timbals crashing
as they tickle a noisy path
over my esophagus.
If I open my mouth wide enough
and clear my throat
I can release a plague.

that's the most worthwhile piece of writing i've done all summer, methinks. i'll send it out for submission in the fall.

things are okay with me. a little stressful, a little hectic. but that's life isn't it? or at least life as i know it.