Song of the Millipede

This entry is part 17 of 38 in the series Bridge to Nowhere: poems at mid-life

International Rock-Flipping Day 2010

I lived like a hundred-legged king
in the faceprint of an idol
who followed my every move.
What drew me to that house made of twilight,
whose rooster swelled like an ingrown toenail
trapped between toe & shoe
& never flew?
With floor turned ceiling,
where would the weather vein?
What rod would rout the lightning root?
Unreal estate no bank would back,
underwritten only by undertakers,
each inch of space had been stolen from a grave.
From time to time, I caught
the musky scent of soured hope
& snuffled for Persephone
at the foot of the missing stairs.

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Dave Bonta (bio) crowd-sources his problems by following his gut, which he shares with 100 trillion of his closest microbial friends — a close-knit, symbiotic community comprising several thousand species of bacteria, fungi, and protozoa.


    1. Thanks! I haven’t made up my mind about it yet, but that’s as it should be, I guess.


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