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Poem: No More Bees 

My wife tells me there are no more bees.

My wife tells me the cell phones have killed all the bees.

I want to stick my head into a patch of daffodils

and do whatever the bees do

to pollinate the earth.

I want to buzz around,

be the king bee,

the fat bastard with all the yellow stripes and octagon eyes.


When I ask God to make me a bee,

he says, “You think one bee

can change the entire demise of human existence

all by itself?”

I scream at him in that browning seersucker suit,

“Damn right you rusty old sonofabitch. Now, work your magic.”


He says, “What are you gonna do for me?”

I say, “I’m gonna honey up the trees, the lakes,

the magic wands of industry

that have lost the sweet.”

“No,” he says, “I’m talking sacrifice.”


When he laughs I run outside in my J.Crew shorts and kill my brother

with a fork.

“You happy now?”

And he is.


And he makes me a bee,

the king buzzard

and I buzz all night long

and all morning long

and all summer back into spring

so that by December

I have saved the planet

and earned the right to tell you

to get off your cell

so I can sit on my fat ass for fifteen minutes

and lament for my brother

 

who I did not bury.

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