Destruction is the most beautiful
of cabarets. Grasshoppers
caked to the grill of a collapsing Oldsmobile
bloody as a buffalo jump.
Locusts are a plague of reason,
a systemic and measurable loss --
they flow like an ice cream symphony
in a sky of marbled doom.
They are no more than populated
wind, and there is no farmer
who does not manage wind.
Grasshoppers are a disheveled horde,
chaos miles wide, drooling brown,
longing to jam themselves
into open mouths, ride like surfers
on wailing tongues. You cannot survive
even half a grasshopper inside your mind,
As a species, they know the itch
of im...
