Took this out of [9/30] and made it a new poem.
What does living mean?
we are born, squalling into mothers’ arms
we are raised, fed, given by others until we are old enough to teach the young
you are pushed out in a cocoon,
stuck in a spider web that you cannot see and cannot escape,
the souls all entwine among the grasshopper corpses
the food turns to ash, even the shit from our bowels becomes cash stacks like mountains—
the masses of white beetles consume them, they scratch
and bite into the rooms, boring holes into the gold-houses, eating up their stores
winter seeps into the minds, creeping under the limbs and makes us dance with
butterfly wing fingers to lift legs, move the mouths, keep the eyes from closing to the waltz of the billions of feet
the bowls of fresh water become scarce, the legs starched with venom
squatting just outside, the watching the black door close in his face, the tempest in the mind,
winds made of guilt and self loathing grind the patchwork sails and the yacht tables both into ashes until only the smouldering flakes are left to cram down parched throats until the breeze turns to tongues and softly,
life, a web
and death, its spidery shepherd
whisper that none of us are alone.