Friday, September 14, 2007



But I don’t do
a thing about it.

I just write about
other things I don’t
feel anything about.

Like the bug
in the air vent,
and it’s dead.

Probably starved
to death.

But if it hadn’t,
I bet it wouldn’t
be writing about

someone writing
about bugs with
a black leaky pen
pondering death
in a bathtub
looking at a bug
that’s probably
dead already.
I bet it would be
wiring about its
soon to be famous
escape from the
air vent.

I mean, once it was
all done, and he had
scampered away,
and was safe and warm,
at home, with his books,
writing materials,
and his loving wife,
cooking something that’s
tasty not to you or me,
but to bugs.

all artwork, including monsters but not old timey photographs,
® mr. crispy flotilla, 2007

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