by CHRIS D’ERRICO
Through the eco-tint
Of my rear view
Saw a man in a straw hat
A sidewalk fresco
Saturated by the Monday sun
Yeah, just a quick glance
To see if my mustache
Was shaved straight
Hustling for breakfast
But no time
Late that morning
On the way to a
by CHRIS D’ERRICO
By each tiny step
Where the pedals attenuate beautiful notes
Ants brave the chemical maelstrom of human weather
Which ant wears the white hat?
Which ant delegates with a sonorous voice?
Which ant wears the black hat?
Plays a dark-keyed march of famished shadows?
By the unenlightened thud of practical pursuit
Mutilated by ambition and feral pleasures
By gumption, contagion, theory
Hope, contaminate, unalienable rights
For prosperity, property, privilege
Sometimes less initiative than zombie complicity
Which ant sings with inspiration for desire and revolt?
Which ant speaks the dogma of hollow gluttony?
Which ant proselytizes the empty doctrine
Of ravenous consumption?
Not by deliberation but by instinct
Ants engineer forests, colonize backyards
Faithful to their own benign and absurd agendas
Where are the ant-sized is/ought dilemmas?
Their larger than life comic book heroes and villains?
Ants save us earthlings from suffocating under
Leaves and fallen wood, nature’s detritus
Which ants are the jezebels, the Lotharios?
The Prometheus, a homunculus?
Individuals with a spine for union, but also
Amorphous, self-emergent systems
Which drone, which worker, which soldier
Questions the mighty ant queen?
No matter, conscience must be clear
Is there such a thing as insect dignity?
Shrewd, truth loving, utterly rational
What spine for union? Cruel? I cast my foot down
My dirty, floor-blackened sole
Gross satisfaction in the sickening pop and goo
Crunch of innards and exoskeleton
by CHRIS D’ERRICO
Birthing an old soul
For a new body
Must take its toll on the gods
Who apparently never tire
Of a universal jolt
Plugging into something
Grizzled and wizened
While the future emerges
The dying generation
In the foyer
Waiting still or fidgeting
Have their megaphones
And stale candies
Waltzing the inevitable
Time is a gargantuan
Pair of dirty hands
Obsessively washing, but
Never coming clean
Clouds in progress
Or under construction
Eternity might decide
What’s past is best
For permanence, headlong
Each mirror aging
Within the vanity
Of each eye
A maze of dead-ends
Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, Chris D’Errico writes poems, plays blues harmonica and works the night-shift as a low-level government employee in Las Vegas, Nevada, where he shares a home with his wife and a small clouder of cats. He is the author of several poetry collections, including: The Meat Game (Thunder Sandwich, 2005), Debris Of Hearts (OffCenter Press, 2007), Vegas Implosions & Exterminator Chronicles (Virgogray Press, 2011), and Ministry of Kybosh (Virgogray Press, 2012). For more, visit www.clderrico.com.
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