Bad Mold
I want to thrive in a mist of beads that shine on my back as a happy wooden scratcher.
Eat Kiwi and heave.
A walking dinner table could not distract me from literature.
Pricking to a deep realm that excites unseen liquids.
Oil may rise the leather height of a pocket, only to drive out the fibers.
Seas of crust.
Altitude of wild animals.
Caves of wharfing stars.
David Muir McEntire
Us Bugs
Swing low said the ant.
A time that is full of bread crumbs
My antennae swell with delight at the sounds of a picnic
With red and with checkered tablecloths
Children see me only small
As if I had fallen carelessly onto their miniature laps
But who are you calling miniature?
It surely isn't the sets of swing that drop my meals
My ants call my name . . . we all have one you know
My family of thousand calls me to dinner in a frenzied motion
Of legs and sweat. You ask, do we sweat?
We never stop. Always engaged unlike those clothed giants
That hoplessly stare at screens of nothing,
Which in turn creates a world of nothing
There is hope for the generation of the ants
-David Muir McEntire
June 06, 1995
