To Be a Fly
is to have the might of superboy
and beat yourself over and over,
soaring hard into the wall,
next to a swat-stain from
a glutted mosquito.
monsters
a million times bigger
hear you whine from rooms away,
spaces large as canyon
on a planet where nothing
stops erosion.
you the only signpost left–you
and the monsters in their huge dim world,
a trap where lightbeams slice like
sabers from a cordoned-off sun.
scents leak from mounds of food
locked in a coffin that hums all the time.
so
you beat and beat yourself,
looking to get out. you can’t play
the game the monsters do,
they who feel fine and seem normal
in a dungeon of caves.
you couldn’t join
their ranks even if your body
changed and somehow grew.
being a fly is more about how you are,
what your dreams
were long-ago made,
and why everyone is always
chasing or mocking you
with words or fists.
Chris Crittenden lives in a tiny fishing village 50 miles from the nearest traffic light. His full-length collection Jugularity was recently released by Stonesthrow Press, and he blogs as Owl Who Laughs.