Cricket finger snaps and the dusty cereal bowl.

the room corners talk like cricket legs-- 
finger snaps-- thigh claps in the dark under
fan hiss and hum-- breathing something like
a boar and i am rum-ring eye lids in the dim of morning--
lift up my head like a fat clay mug and pour
out coffee grounds and nectar from yesterday.
have you noticed where the crickets are hiding?
in the bushes by the window-- itchy and leg-haired
they've slept somewhere between
my sheets-- the crickets are gossiping
from my spine now-- talking about thighs with a
crinkle of the bent-leg blues--some, prostrate
in prayer, ask for more cereal bowls and less
cloud today. they fight tight chest and 
finger nails on the window with the bushes that
slap their tiny leaves on the glass in vain--
they ask for cereal-- the sugary type
that remind us of coffee cake beaches and diners. 
the plastic jewelry Fruit Loops or board
game pieces of a bowl of lucky charms
-- roll enough dice to walk 
over the sand and not get any in your shoes
when you wake up to the talk of crickets--
learn to preach like crickets. they are
determined make prophesy of the mundane.
the crickets count something different every 
single day from dew drops to number of
cups of coffee the girl with no hair
drink from her end table--
they've made the kitchen sink into a homily
night robe pocket prayer books-- telling
the congregation to count them
"count until there's no more numbers"
"count until you have enough numbers to make
yourself feel like a person"
--oh! humans like me have lost enough hours of sleep
trying to figure out what the crickets are counting.
are they counting me?
are they counting on me?
have they figured out how many days i have
like to wake up to room corners 
that talk like crickets?
one told me a secret-- crushed under
the frantic palm of my hand-- 
he said that they never truly had wanted to 
count anything-- he said that 
they were sick of counting-- sick of the numbers
and the corners and the window-- that
they wanted to eat cereal in thick socks--
pour the coffee grounds out of the fat
clay mugs and wake up to room corners 
instead of talking the same word
again. again. again. until it meant something
to someone else.