Race and Religion in Creative Consciousness

What Evolves From Bricks

they have eight legs
which is how you know
they are mites

in the summer
they crawl out
of the red bricks by the swimming pool
generated spontaneously
within the bricks’ dry aortas
punctuating that barren space
with their winding routes

no one knows what they eat

accidentally (and this can’t
be avoided)
you may crush one or
two of them beneath
your bare sunbaked arms. when
I was four or five
I could never really see
the difference: they would
stop moving, and
their little arms would
disappear. they never
ate anything, went anywhere, or did anything–
what did it matter if I halted a few
ceased them there atop the desert bricks

perhaps they are brickdust
elementals, legs and thoraxes joined
out of the very firmament of
the bricks. in which case
my small murders
have no bearing on the cosmos
save to anger a cracked span
of redness beside the pool
and red brick
is very slow
in taking


You Killed My Fucking Mites

are a grade A bastard

do you get off
killing my fucking mites
it does not matter
where they eat sleep or fuck
or whether they vote Democrat
or Republican
they are my fucking mites

am a very old brick
and the only happiness
I take from this arid existence
(because I certainly don’t relish
holding up your flip flops)
comes from the small warm creatures
that enjoy themselves
among my cuts
my grooves

and since I have no senses
to speak of
I feel it most acutely
when you harm something
that matters
to me

you kill them
in stanza five
of your pretentious modernist drivel
and proceed to discuss them
as if you have the right to write
an elegy
for what you have destroyed

that’s not poetic
that’s just perverse
and I hope to God you trip on me
and have to get stitches
in your smug face
and I hope the an-
aesthetic fails
write a poem about that

you don’t even know
how to use punctuation
you fucker

Spring 2004.