fruit fly 

i explain to the fruit flies
it is not a good time for rot. i am
tired & out of ways to clean us up. 
i want the apples to outlive the sun.
the drain is not a heaven but instead
is an escape. the flies are practicing
their religion in the living room.
our values are not all that different.
i want to survive as do they. i crave
the wilting edges of any room. i too
as a queer person, am responsible for 
tending the death rings. 
the flies line up on the ceiling & pray
into lamp light. i try to explain
that i am a good man (or whatever i am).
the flies are not interested in excuses.
i can understand this. i mostly find
that if you have to explain yourself
you are usually guilty of something.
me, i am guilty of not waking up 
early enough. not eating the squash soon enough.
not milking the moon before it goes sour. not
opening the back door so the deer
can walk in & have a place to dance 
two-legged without fear. i consider
joining the fruit flies in an attempt
at diplomacy. i decide though that would
be insincere. i want to be an honest
garbage pale if nothing else. the flies worship
the end & so do i. i think maybe
we just have different ways of reaching it.
me, through my flesh. them, through
the unraveling of others. i have learned though
that if i stick around long enough 
with another kind of spirit i can usually
become one of them. maybe in a few nights
i'll feel differently. ready to eat the sick peaches.
ready to cull the windowsill for bone.
join the flock writing their old language
on the white ceiling. rubbing my hands 
with all the others.