Fly Suicide [Today's News Poem by Khakjaan Wessington, July 20, 2012]
You are trying to address me in speech,
But I don't understand this fly.
It has landed on my keyboard
Centimeters from my palms.
In the world of magical thinking,
Every clue has meaning.
When my brother yells at me,
I imagine it is you who yells.
Flies are my halo, my kitchen electrons.
Siblings are symbols of self possibility,
Phantom extensions like limbs,
Else sympathetic venom, like voodoo.
Death will unite us all. We'll transfer electrons,
Gather our halos and pluck on our harps
Made of earthworms, our wings made of shale,
And soil for a soul, dirt in the mouth.
I'm close as able, possibly again if possible.
Perhaps you are saying I should escape for good
And spoil the last reunion, and despoil this swarm of flies
And run away? But where can I run, if not to you?
“What is particularly striking about this dry spell is its breadth. Fifty-five percent of the continental United States — from California to Arkansas, Texas to North Dakota — is under moderate to extreme drought, according to the government, the largest such area since December 1956.”
– JOHN ELIGON, The New York Times, Published: July 19, 2012 The
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