I’ve worked and I’ve watered that musical spark
(at times I have watered too well…),

I’ve hungered for poison, alone in the dark
and burned in a sobering hell,

I’ve seen the fruition of all that I feared,
lost even a servant post’s wage,

I’ve sopped up sonatas like soup from my beard
and bellowed with orchestral rage,

Yet always I’ve thirsted for life in my art,
for something to buoy me up,

I’ve poured out the notes of a desperate heart
but settled for death in a cup.

And it is his own.

“Awaken and eat!”, they cry,
“Awaken and sing!”

Yes, it’s time to awaken,
to rub the sleep from those compound eyes,
flex the arches of those exoskeletons,
stretch those legs on legs on legs, and lube
those eyestalks with mucus.
The season of bug-song has come, and armies
of musicians are gathering to play.

It begins with the low rumble
of worms tunneling through soil, picks up the percussion
of centipedes thrumming and jazz brush ants
sweeping out the cluttered entryways of winter.
Mosquitos and midges in clouds
add whining soprano
while spiders weave and pluck their webs, pizzicato
for a meal. Beetles scuttle between blades
of grass, or flip sudden wings from shells
to buzz along baritone flight paths.
Slugs slide
right through the register.

“Awaken and eat!
Awaken and sing!”
It’s time to awaken.

Escape?

You were standing on your head by that point,
tapping your feet against the wall.
“Eat pie,” you said, laughing.

And how, I pressed, can that help resolve anger?
“Because eating pie doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Ah, but what if you don’t have any pie?
“Then make pie!”

I paused, confounded for a moment
by your simple theory
of pie production and consumption.
If only the economics of anger
were so easily reconciled.

Perhaps tonight we’ll read a story
about obesity.

This one is an entire horn section.

If this glassy window opened onto the darkened insides
of a room, I might stare with pupils slowly dilating
until I could sense the outlines of furniture and faces.

Or if I held my body straight, with arms pressed to my sides,
I might tip forward like a human hinge, face first
into the watery film of this pool, bordered by mute pavement,

and swing through, up into sky on the other side.

through my finger

and up my arm

before I wake.

“Why am I still alive?” he asks, shoulders slumped, but with his trademark hint of sarcasm.

I lean back in my chair, shifting gears mentally. “Uh… because you woke up breathing this morning? Because your heart is still pumping blood?”

“No, I mean, why do I bother going on? Sometimes I think it would be better to just quit. Tank the whole thing and be done. I’m not satisfied with how things are turning out at all.”

“Well…” I venture, “Maybe something in you is stirring up. Something inside is longing to start on a new journey of exploration and discovery. To probe deeper into the mysteries of life and find something beyond yourself. Something that inspires you with hope, and that changes you into a person you never thought you could be.”

He stares at me blankly, mouth frozen mid-chew.

“Or maybe you just want another doughnut.”

He smiles, eyes narrowing. “Another doughnut,” he says, nodding. “I knew I liked you.”

He does most of the shopping
when he comes along. Pushes the cart
and fetches items from the shelves
that she can’t reach: Tortilla chips,
raisins, a tub of sour cream, a loaf of bread.
He wags his tail
in the meat section.
Reminds her to use the coupons.

At home, he changes light bulbs
and sorts the laundry. Bathes himself
and wipes the black hair from the tub.
He’s working on a painting
of the French revolution.
Sometimes he answers the phone.

He prefers Chopin to Mendelssohn,
syrah to merlot,
and double gloucester to gouda.
He feels that Faulkner’s best work
came before 1935.
He catches frisbees with his teeth
and ponders theories of social justice.

Not bad for an animal
without thumbs.