The Ant's Commute

Oh ten ton bomb oh ten ton bomb how lovely are thy banshees. I am the Alpo and the megaplex I am purple mountain's magic skis I am greater than the sum of all future pork bellies and classroom shenanigans I am bored.

Two thoughts occur to me now. Two make themselves heard above the others anyway. One is this:

They're hiding something.

And the other:

They don't exist. That's what they're hiding.

It all seems so logical now. Doesn't it? No. Really. Doesn't it?

Sirens may blare, trees may fall and dogs may salute me with their hind legs but now I have logic. I can see patterns now that I couldn't before. I'm looking close and hard at them. I'm up for it.

You'd have done it too. You'd have made him beg if you could. Just because you couldn't doesn't really mean you're innocent. Sure, technically you're innocent but you fucking wanted this as much or more than I did. You can at least admit that, can't you

Don't go back I tell myself. Don't go back and hide in that pile of backyard leaves. Supper's not ready and Mom's not calling and that ain't pine logs you smell burning. Walk on, walk on. Feel that rock in your shoe ride that piss hard-on to the next bus stop fry those lightly seasoned eggs in the coffee can you stole from wicked circumstance. Everybody knows what's going on and no one least of all you gives a fat flying fuck at a rolling doughnut doing ninety nine to life down the Moulton Parkway at rush hour.

And don't rush the hours. They're not going anywhere either. Is something rustling?

The ants are streaming from his nostrils now, commuting to the hill. It's rush hour for them for sure. Me I'm just sitting here. The sun's been up for a while and we need to have a talk the sun and I. We need to discuss many things. I'll try not to be too hard on the sun I know the days can be long and hot and I wouldn't want to make anything any worse for anyone. I've almost never made anything worse for anyone if I could help it, I didn't even make it worse for him no matter how bad he looks right now he's a damn site better off than he could be or he ought to be. Damn sure better than he ought to be.

The sun is blowing me off, sure that it doesn't want to hear what I have to say. I'm not so sure I want to say what I have to say so I guess that's fine with me. Stupid sun. I'm busy counting rocks right now, busy making arrangements in the dirt. The dew's dry and dudes die I'm too high for clues why excuse my loose tie as you try to screw guys with blue eyes stop fucking stop already fucking stop.

OK I've stopped. I can feel the little rocks I'm sitting on now. I can smell the dirt. I can hear the cicadas begging for attention. I can taste my rotten tooth. Teeth? Tooth. Yes, tooth.

I hope.

Little waves are rising from the asphalt and silver pools are shining where the road meets the sky. Little songs are creeping in my head now sung by little singers on a tiny twinkling stage. They're shaking the rafters those tiny singers but the rafters are only as big around as toothpicks so I have to wonder if this band is really all that good I mean it seems that good to me but what I know about music you can fit in that flattened styrofoam coffee cup with room to spare for all my watered down expectations. A fly just landed on my arm and flew away I feel as if the fly and I are one but if we are I just lost a little piece of myself.

Little pieces of myself everywhere. In the dirt beneath my feet the rocks are all shaped like one or another of my failures, the tiny burrs on the weeds look a lot like every pain I've ever felt, and somewhere behind that telephone pole sits my potential. That's me all over.