i’m getting the irrational urge to kill a bug.

the sun is hot and apparently that’s giving me some violent charge

(some kind of nature, to corrupt-)

please, please keep me away from the rocks-

in a fervor i google the red, pinhead-sized things and learn 

that they are clover mites- bryobia praetiosa.

i get off track easily,

have you learned that yet?

if i clenched one in my fist,

between dirtied nails, 

would it form red dust or would it shoot red 

bug guts staining my red palms,

smeared on red lips à la 

mulan (1998)- 

disney classic, if you didn’t know- 

red-speckled chicken,

devoid of feathers diogenes

spitting and babbling froth-mouthed at his

rival, plato-

a plucked chicken,

your featherless biped, the unwashed philosopher mocks-

or would it fight its way free,

sink its fangs in my skin and drain me of sainthood

splash lukewarm wine-blood-red on my lips

(do you prefer yours decanted?) 

or are we all empire ants,

working the cogs, plucking the strings-

a Father’s creatures tossed aside?