14: Oct 2016 #07 - Post-Haze
Authored by James Kwapisz
The summer came and went like a whisper you couldn’t decipher, could not care to decrypt, for it was not for you outlying, eavesdropping on some strangers’ banter muddled under the hum of cicadas clamoring in the sun, articulating their secret mystic rituals gesticulating themselves out their skins writhing in rhythms already written all to echo on their antecedents’ form, their origin, their destination; spasmodic, they seize their intermittent season. Deaf to the whole rigmarole, you cling hollow to a sprig of grass or a fray of branch whimpering on the wind like the shell cast from its host, like the casing of a legume long since consumed cleaves to the tooth and coats its youth with cavity, with depression. The cicadas scream in the sun as their husks hold fast to some vain redemption as the cicadas scream carpe diem! as an old lover’s mandibles pass the curd to the tongue, as the fangs dull and rot as the cicadas die in the sun.