Damn Nature!

[1] Devil’s Creation

S

warms of scorpions, gnats, wasps,
carrion flies and biting fleas:
others are spread the world across
but bothersome enough, are these.
A wasp in a classroom
or on the bus, or even outside
will single me out for doom —
what you must be thinking inside.
But, list for a moment. List.

The hood and doors stand ajar
to service and vacuum the car,
the wasp appears, embarks a chase
that clears the seats, she marks my face:
angrily bangs the windshield.
Then after driving across the field,
three dots advance from afar —
she brings martial comrades for
round two — a demonic twist.

 

[2] Killing Bugs

M

y kids believe in the circle of life —
Disneyfied:
every creature purposed by Yahweh;
therefore, entomological battles of the
homestead prove problematic, until –
I lie,
or maybe not.

Some creatures were created not by
God, but the Devil.

Afterward,
not only can I kill with impunity,
but the girls participate.

 

[3] Disaster

T

he funnel lowers
from roiling Spielberg storm clouds
to wipe existence.

Swirling hurricanes
bulldoze the sea to landscape,
melting the coastline.

The Earth does not move
until Atlas shakes the globe —
toppling foundations.

A bolt of lightning
illuminates the dark field;
fire spreads for acres.

The mathematics
of probability picks
victims at random.
Blind chance rules the lives of all —
fair-wind sails or cracked-mast squalls.

 

[4] Pinecones

S

nap !
Tap, tap, tap, tsh.

Crap !

another damn pinecone haphazardly
falls, under the only tree left
unclimbed by children:
limbs too high and gluey resin unwashable.
Fibonacci fish scales overlapping,
ending in barbs too prickly to pick up,

Ouch !

The unsightly wooden eggs function
as hygrometers, the scales opening when dry,
a demonic, earthy flower: hydrophobic
The puffy strobilus is a feminine
fortress protecting ovules
couched.

Conifers: only good for crafts and Christmas;
hard to pick up, hard to toss, and hard to rake —

Damn !
I hate pinecones.

 

[5] Vesuvius

A

moment of terror frozen
in statues of ashfall,
a pyroclastic arrest
of metabolism.
Entire settlements drown
in pumice and tephra,
screams cut short
by the shifting matrix
of travelling particles
adrift.
Volcanic missiles and cinders
of Hell rain down
on Herculaneum and Pompeii:
thousands in the everyday end
abruptly, the snipping by
the Fates.
The black skies brood over
the wake below, the sheet lightning
freezing the wasteland smoke
with every bleak flash.

 

[6] Sans

S

hades of former selves in the caverns below
mill around the Lethe and the Styx, abstract.
Coda for the ages of man from Shakespeare
          settle in ebbing.

Metabolic failings announce onsetting
aging filching life from the cells and tissues:
fading sight, and silence replaced with phantom
          chirping of crickets.

Souvenirs of memory counter symptoms,
leading one to question the worth of life;
databases adding up bits of selfhood —
          proof of existence

more alive than life, that is only machine:
longing spirit acting despite the laws of
thermodynamics that slow the spinning gears
          toward a standstill.

*[ WSB ].