home

he needs a home

hungry

he is hungry

winter is coming

he is oh so cold

red he sees red

red is warm he thinks

just a piece

he chomps

the red sweater becomes tatters

as his nest becomes warmer by the day

cheese is his favorite

he knows how cliche that sounds

but hey at least it's not a cookie

because then he'd need milk

and we all know what might happen next

he smells the cheese

a nibble he thinks won't hurt

he nibbles

droppings he leaves everywhere

insecure

his intestines something he's never had much a say in

he feels guilt leaving them

by his delicious cheese

in his warm, red nest

home

he has a home

food

he has been fed

content

he is content

warm in his new red home

I am judged too harshly. It is not my fault that my cousins are so aggressive. I mind my own, I hardly attack. When I do, it is with reason.

I have a slim black or brown body, and are often hated for it.

I fly around collecting and paralyzing spiders for my young.

I am fine with others around me, they don't bother me.

I am sorry for my cousins,

I am harmless, as long as you do not mishandle me.

Just beware of those who live in my abandoned nests.

Hard legs puncture the loose sand. They're on the move. Tiny bead eyes swiveling in their elongated sockets like an expensive security camera. Through the dunes, down the shore, past the oysters, they come in a red crawling tongue. The strange appendage nothing but a sum of its parts. An army of eager crustaceans ready to enter the depths. Eight sectioned legs remark the path of the previous traveler. Ovular bodies braced on their pedestals, a slow spider, a hardened machine moving its solid but intricate parts. Their migration continues in a pulse. A primitive rhythm dancing to the energy of moral driven troops. Thousands of small bodies scuttle through the the dusty heat to the wet sacred grounds of the deep. Claws click in unified anticipation. Soon the nuanced movements become a complex symphony ending by the lapping shoreline between the rocks. The are a unit of one and one in thousands. Dancing to a tune only heard by themselves.

people hate us. milipedes, cockroaches, sea cucumbers, earth worms.

but then people die.

like fallen leaves, they lay,

in rich aroma.

we do all the work. mulching away as we ingest all the rotten leftover.

a mobster, a film star,

a politician, a pool cleaner,

we care not for nationality,

we dont give a hoot if they can spell.

all we care about is feeding.

do you want to take a greater interest?

give a hand in decomposition?

well, come right in, mulch away,

plenty for everyone.

and if you feel,

that your stomach seizes in pain,

perhaps you ate too much,

no matter,

we'll carry on without you.