Hum transcendental while flicking off insects that crawl up the seams of your
jeans bought last weekend from the Gap. Your conscience is clean, mostly. Isn’t
that what credit cards are for? Aren’t there enough bugs in the world? But you
start to feel just a bit sooty, and wonder if three feet of shade, a hoagie, and a
good book are worth taking their lives? Those that live sail like unwilling para-
troopers bullied by a bearded man with a Slavic accent who mutters, You must
go, right before he pushes them out of the plane, then smirks and lights a cigar.
The humming part is supposed to make you feel better—make you feel as if your
childhood sins should be blown away too because after all you were young, and
the wings were neatly torn; the stinger left still intact. You carefully dust bread
crumbs from your pants, gulp the last of your Dr. Pepper, and finish reading the
poet who despises the words decadence and pastoral. The sun becomes
stronger. The shade is fading away. The bees start to circle.
(originally published in Kill Author)