Contrarian Evenings

I don’t mean to be difficult,
but I actually like mosquitoes.
I like that string bowed song
near my ear when they hover by
on their way to work.
There’s an urgency in that
note’s high pitch, the frantic
melancholy of the blood worker.
I wish they wouldn’t bite me,
but darn it, everybody’s
got to eat. Christ did not
create this world, but some
do drink of his blood.

I like brown muddy water
where mosquitoes raise
their families, a quite
neighborhood with junk food
soda cups simmering in
the afternoon puddles and
the little larval bodies
wiggling their way
to adulthood.

Mosquito, you take a rash of
shit for spreading disease.
And nobody likes it when
you light and sting with that
hypodermic proboscis,
but at least you don’t try
to sell me insurance or
trick me into joining an
apocalyptic suicide cult.
Did you ever build an
improvised explosive device?
I didn’t think so.

And me, I stand quietly aside
while the world revels in its
hatred of you. Crushing
you with violent hand
slaps. Splattering your insides
all over their own blunt foreheads.
And then they cheer with
smug satisfaction, I got him!
They joke about high-fiving you
or that you’ll never have
the guts to do that again.
Well, you suck blood to live,
without a friend in the world,
living by the letter of your law.
When the Bodhisattva takes birth
as a blood sucking mosquito
we’re all slap-happy fools
playing with karmic fire.

So when I step outside and
feel you light upon my shoulder,
take a drink, go ahead pal,
it’s only blood, it’s only
mine to use for a time, here
in the world where all the
bloodsuckers ply their trade.
Here in the world, as Summer
days give way to contrary
Autumn evenings.

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