Ugh, and when you’re trying to cross the street
two ladies with fur hats and frowning evening gowns
walk at you not changing their course
even though it was you who started crossing first
and they make you get out of their way
you step nimbly last minute to the side where you will bask in your failure to
run them down with a begrudged budge;
they don’t say sorry,
they just keep staring ahead blank
blank
blank they are blank
so you are the one who has to say sorry as they pass
‘else you feel like some sort of an ass
either way they always manage to make you feel like an ass
and the fuckers don’t even respond to your apology!
they just keep walking straight,
blank and
straight
on their way to get in the way of
even more people
who are just getting in the way of
even more people
people people, everywhere
they don’t notice that you’re there
unless they dislike what you wear
they don’t care
they would tear
through
you

and I just wish black death would wash over the skies
and flood the limelight in the sight of which we all must pose
so that I may prowl the streets
do my rounds, harden my feet;
be the Dancer of Dark
blind for lack of sun
come at one with blackness;
I wish the clouds would vanish
with a spill of ink
and all rain, sun, life be banished
so the souls and spirits are free to think.

but instead here we have massive spreads of series of colonies of ants
that thrived for the sake of good ol’ Darwin
and the Queens of us
receive pleasure
from the swarm
and are impregnated
over and over again
and then are elected
by each other
to prestigious political offices over which they preside
they push paper and prepare proposals to formulate insidious subcommittees
to run covert counter-intelligence operations and take the flack that will never come from properly sedated swarms
their antennae receive sensory blowjobs from New Queens who wish to be drafted
for the noble cause of imperialism
they conquer
and conquer
and subjugate
always boasting of
their mother state so great,
the Queens draft Soldiers too
and the Soldiers of us
walk streets; battle lines of blank stares,
kill
with their massive manly phalluses
with their metal bought by money
their metal detonated by chemistry
and most of all, they kill by sharing and instilling insecurity,
and the Worker ants
are oppressed and exploited at the six legs of the cruel queen and thrown in front of steering wheels
which they handle
drive
cars
into herds of confusion
that coagulate before streetlights
(because bugs are always enamored of light),
and they stop
in their places
when they fully realize their burning,
their blood flowing
and they stare, stare
ascending to a greater consciousness and honing in on the mothership
meanwhile I’m stuck waiting
for their Automobile Armies
blockading,
bombarding
the streets
micromanaging,
the pedestrian swarms
the people
the people
I’m stuck waiting
to cross the street
and I hate waiting
and I hate the cars
and I hate the people
so I curl up in a ball in the crossway
and I have sex with a squealing
car crash
above me
into
me
my blood christens windshields
and my limbs soar
and knock
a power pedestrian on his head
and drip on his buckled suit
and my head rolls
round in circles
spiraling until it’s floating
up to the sky and my psychedelic eyes
are focused on
the light
the light
I love the light.