Spring is Here

“All the small things” – sang Tom DeLong almost two decades ago. Words that echoed all the way to the stars, where scientific research is taking place as YOU read this pamphlet. What are YOU going to do when To the Stars Academy of Arts and Sciences finds extraterrestrial life? What are YOU going to do once aliens become part of our TRUTH? Will the humble farmer swallow the oddly viscous crops? How will the hunter act upon discovering that the cluster of marbles on his prey was actually eggs? It is YOU, possessor of your will and master of your destiny, who decides which path to walk; one among lilies in the valley, underneath an apple tree or that of an embalmed darkness that impedes you to see what flowers are at your feet? Tom DeTom might disagree, but if you ask me, insects are aliens. We are here and we walk amongst you. Just look around and tell me what do you see- crickets chirping, aphids lurking... All my good friends know it’s egg-laying time and guess what? YOUR skin is my incubator! Yes you heard that right, before you know it spring will be here, but where will you be? Or should I say ‘we’- you and me? Because one day you’ll grow accustomed to the sound and it will be too late to love again and it will be too soon to breed again. For it is YOU, possessor of your own will and master of your destiny, who decides which path to walk; one among lilies in the valley, underneath an apple tree or that of an embalmed darkness that impedes you to see what flowers are at your feet? Tomtom might disagree, but if you ask me, aliens are insects. We are here. We live amongst you. And when the stings of the executioner wasps rise and wrath of the ant lord overtakes the terrain, where will YOU be? Will you be with me? or will you be alone, on your own, under the deafening hiss of the condemned? Will you be with bugs, touched by the light or will you be covered by the shadow beneath us?


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I am telling of the coming things as I have seen them. All I describe here is how things will come to pass.

I am filled with dread. I slumber fitfully and

Abscessed perturbations swell- a vision seeps outward. Inside of a man is a worm.

The worm is on one end forked- the two separate tendrils of neck each terminate in a head. These faces emerge from my nostrils to advise me. The other end twists endlessly until it disappears deep inside my skull.

The faces tell me of a hideous plant that dwells beneath the surface of the earth. It is called a dandelion. It is necrotic- it cannot be killed. It is dug into the ground and even now taunts us with tufts of hateful seed. I hear this from the worm and I see its truth.

I feel it wrap around my spine.

The worm can see things that I cannot. It’s eyes are so small, it looks in between atoms to see through the material world. He whispers to me the true order of things. It is ordered thusly:

Batteries
Foam
Gas
Gravel
Helium
Irradiated particles
Turf
Uranium


Wherever I am not, there is the worm. Whatever I cannot observe, he relays to me. Whosoever’s presence I require, the worm knows what they would say.

The worm has developed my appetite for insight. I crave his analysis and place it above all else. I clench the barbs fixed behind my eyes and his ichor glazes my sight.

Visions strain thick and tuberous from below, and one by one the worm presents them to me:
1. An edifice crumbles, pocked through with needling vine
2. Lecherous foliage devours the noonday sun, leaving none for the emaciated creatures of the ground
3. A tumescent root, split down the middle, spills itself into the soil, enacting it’s will on earth and sky and stream


Just before I wake I feel my bones snap like dry twigs. I am being remade from the inside. Where I am found lacking, the worm can correct. When I cannot choose, the worm has the answer. He spies the errant seeds lodged between my muscle and my skin and digests them before they take root. The worm has made me clean. The worm is making all things clean. The worm will shuck this world of its ravenous husk and, left with a new pure seed of molten granite and iron, will hoe a new row of simple, enduring satisfaction, without hunger or heat or infected growth.


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A letter to the editor:

My dearest one,

I’ve always been considered quite peculiar both in life and in matters of the soul. From a very young age I possessed a sort of head-down speed walk which carried me from home to school and to my neighbor’s tire-swing. Only there would I feel such a rush that it would raise me from the ground, from my body, up into the branches and beyond. I would feel an exuberance there which would weigh on every waking moment which followed it, seeping into my every day walk, eyes trained directly to the road ahead, patiently awaiting another moment on the swing.

How peculiar would it be that this feeling of weightlessness would possess me any time we lock eyes, Nadine. Ever since I last saw you at the fair this past July, the same exuberance has weighed on my soul, stalking my walking hours, demanding we meet again. I am not a covetous man but these harvest months have worn my patience thin and I have been compelled to act upon these latent desires and reap my vengeance upon those who would desire to keep us apart. My law, my religion, and my conscience burdens me now as I write you. I have sought restitution in vain and only can see now the culmination of my butchery.

But as I am at once a proud and private man I wish that none of this should be made public knowledge. The hammer of the law must remain unsullied by the pretensions of a single man whose lust for transcendence drove his hand to murder. I see now that I have been mocked with visions my whole life. Visions of grace in the branches of trees, love in the eyes of another and joy in the act of clearing a path to the marriage bed. I realize that the only embrace I will deserve is the tug of the noose. My father always told me I had “wise blood”, which would deter me from the provocations of the flesh and spirit. I see now though that this was only a ruse, driving me to act with honor as a means of living up to my family name.

As I write this I realize that nothing I can do can prevent you from divulging the contents of this letter to any you may choose, so I must confess that regardless of what you intend to do with it I will be long gone. If you wish for some sense of closure, maybe all I can offer is that you search for me near my father’s old home on Davis St. My maker calls and I must not delay him.

With all the love in my heart,



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He[e]dless moths do not move idly towards flame - claim may be made that their very existence precludes any other end is FALSE!!! We at Bug Fight Inc. do NOT (!) support such needless plays of mass suicide, instead we aim a higher calling. Our stars - deer little egglings - are not re-membered for their act (s) of bravery but rather purity of action , righteous fur y. Head less bugs, brought to light, reach our little corner of heaven, between interconnectedness through ComCast’s premium packedge and s∆nd wish rappers, das ist fresh, good, no snow in-sight. The world is not interesting story / A tiresome play, we hast to add, that no craven pulse quick anticipi-ation. It does not purvey the trill which it preTENSE. No one new better than its producers that down right the unclean mess couldn’t be shown NO MORE !!! All that’s left is mock sentimentality,, considerable unnecessary epidermis and-boredom. We are Bug Fight Inc. and we do not patronize it, for it is not worth attention from any engel. If patronized, you only add to the already unstoppable force to the light.