Those Beetles that hang on your ancient CD player

i waste my time with insects,
they hold me down
with legs and hands
covered in hairy spikes and
six arms
and pull off my wings,

the pain in my wrist
throbs like the spiked
lime green mountains on the EKG,
bouncing in rhythm with the road,
and timed by those all too
human minds
that keep me alive,

guess what? like the penny
spiraling down that tunnel
with no tracks
except for that canary yellow-vanilla
slick plastic,
you know the one
for charity?
that you love as a kid
and scold pessimistic with age?
catholics saving children and atheists mocking lupus-

well, that's where they meet me,
wings tucked behind hard shells,
and I'm at a loss, a sudden loss,
of anything really,
and that's why I tip my hat
and mumble something between
"heyhellohow'swhatsgoin'yo,"
and we feel like idiots and hold the door,
for anybody whose coming,
unless it'll close before they reach it,
well then it's beyond the rules
of polite society,
or any society, and
they're on their own
with that heavy-hinged door,
its little featureless window and the world beyond,

But they can fly-or can they? (we're inside/underground)
if they can't don't look back,
keep your head down, if they fall
it's not on me or you, they're heavy and
I'm more worried about my wrist
reminding me I'm alive,
or taking you to bed,
or the guy in the corner looking
like something is up that only he knows,
or that next meal I can blow ten dollars on
with an 18% gratuity and note to the waitress,
to check if they're raising
those nightmare arms to curse me or the NGOs.