Fly Swatter Ballet

All these flies,
flying to Dvorak through my rooms,
through my house,
flying, fleeing a madman
with a rolled fistful of coupons.
Circulars filled with money
saving opportunities daily to my mail,
and they all end the same:
in the bin smeared with fly.
Where do they come from,
five fat flies all banging eyes,
multi-faceted, against my eastward window?
Soon as they’re beaten,
there’s another one and he’s going to get it,
and he’s got it now,
because I know fly killing.
They must take off forward.
He can’t step back
or vault into the air side-long;
a fly is forthright;
he can not lie;
he leads with his head
and I sweep into his line of vision,
50cents off at Der Weinershnitzel
and then death.
Death is a hotdog hammer in bug guts.
Blue Windex standing by
I wash gooey puddles of life from my window,
the one facing east
with the view of razor wire
and thin vacant eyes in the stucco.
Another one comes buzzing in.
He makes seven, lucky seven –
full of luck and life, but none for him.
There’s a 48 hour sale at Ralph’s
and the Super sweet Fuji Apples are a killer deal.
89 Cents a pound on the window frame,
and I shit you not,
Flyer Eight has come to call,
got smashed on Clois du Bois,
6.99 at Von’s with club card
and there was more where that came from for
#9, #9, #9,
who fell dead to the spider in the sill,
and now there is ten,
done in by half priced Easter baskets at Party City
and yards of carpet for eleven and,
the time is coming,
coming for a dozen,
and 12 Tecates for 10.99 clean his clock,
and for me the killing is done,
but I’m reminded of beer at 1:53
how 12 Tecates can kill, flies and time
but one,
just one,
for the mind,
for the dead,
for the mindful dead:
flies and Dvorak alike,
12 beers, one at a time,
and I lift the tab up on the first and it goes, “tick,”
then pull it forward
like a fly in flight
and it goes, “TOCK.”


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