In Texas, in April, the Ants
1. Fire Ants
That self is a fiction of neural programming.
Proofs
Poets do the murders.
Old Marxists play football on television.
The uncomprehending sit quietly on folded chairs.
2. Sugar Ants
That we are step-down filters for the Big Juice, constructed for survival,
not communion.
Proofs
The summer heat.
She constructs fables of domesticity.
Those lips as big as sausages.
3. Termites
Yet form is a talisman against disintegration.
Proofs
I stand very close to him and say, "Listen to me. If I ever
see crack cocaine around my children, I'll kill you." As he walks
away, I say, just loudly enough, "I'll blow your fucking head
off."
Sleep.
Pain always roves.
by Joe Ahearn