Vermin Manifesto
Awake
I miss the monsters under my bed.
Ive replaced creeps with caffeine IVs,
with questions, Do terrorists dream?
Where do pigeons sleep?
I am being choked by the dead in the air.
Fearful voices in paranoid ears
encourage my eyes to dance with cracks in the ceiling;
to raise and toss styrofoam stones at my head.
I cannot let roaches crawl on my face in the dark.
I am sorry for letting the seconds wither.
Abhorred by this lynched fatigue;
restless, plagued by this terribly catchy song;
worn, angry at news that refuses to sleep.
I am unable to believe in peace.
I want to be at the head of my own table.
Ive invited the roaches to dine with me.
Still, the fast food tastes bad
and I cant hold a conversation.
I wish I had a time machine.
Copulating pigeons don the wheel of my 2 AM headache.
I pray to mute shadows, Torpedo me, anywhere.
Cooing guides my head for a three-hour tour.
Closed windows keep the sounds in.
When will my insomnia no longer need constant updates?
Can a doves love nourish the scorn of the pigeon?
Did I forget to shut off the neutron bomb in my bag?
I recall the chat I had with a pregnant roach.
He said, Hey, why dont you just swallow
this inspiration whole, shit its contents
and proclaim it genius?
I whisper a sleepless laugh.
The roach continued her tale of mighty adventures:
roaches dodging fire, comets, and diseased fruits,
the great escape from hateful feet.
I wonder if roaches cry when theyre alone.
I marvel at how the neck of a pigeon reflects
the colors of gasoline puddles.
I hope they are safe.
I want to remember just one nightmare.
Awake
Oh, the roach in my morning caffeine!
Floating there lost; strayed from its team.
In the kitchen, they mourn,
like I do for my coffee,
for vermin children who suffer like the battered
breasts of pigeons tossed about the highway.
Theres nothing better than the smell of devoted skin.
Too bad television screens echo the terror,
the feathers of the dying thin.
The purpose of life, diluted to a joke with two punchlines.
I am laughing at war.
I am laughing at Infinity
who ventures like the roach
that sensed some sweetness in my cup
and dived for the sake of knowing.
Dived since it had just hours to go.
Our wings wont work.
So crawling on an asphalt tidal wave,
in-between concrete knotted leg hairs,
visions of a heroic journey, to escape
like the pigeon dares to be
squelched by goliath buses,
dodges the spit from jealous poets,
and resigns to a doves rejection.
We are forced to feed,
Off the roaches,
Not a soul gets to fly.
