My arm is wiggling again.

There is a man across the year.
He builds and repairs a house, but no one ever lives in it.
I want to live in a time, in a place, in a tree root.
Slurping up tapeworms and drinking solids.
Swallowing every slimy thing whole that slides across my tongue
and into my contentment.

Pull up my veins and attach them to speakers.
Can you hear the ants chattering away about how
raisins and mixed nuts have too many calories?
Fiddle, fiddle, and the locusts love to flaunt their slimness.
The dog will drink the fluids I leak.

Everyone hates Betty at the office.
I hate her too.
She doesn’t care. She doesn’t know.
And I hate her more for it.
Betty will die at 83.

Pennies, worth more as metal,
are scrambling to escape our claws, rolling down with the lint.
Trash throwing itself away before it reproduces.
But, even the most beloved corners can’t last forever.
Tiny, pudgy fingers find everything with enough time.

First you fight
then you can die
My arm is wiggling again
hacking up little gems.