this one is for the rats

Naive rats sniff out the streets for sustenance.
the roaches grow large lingering in these decaying wet walkways
my jean clad body streaming above the rats and roaches.
the dying decrepid vermin.

they grease cover themselves for their orgiastic movements,
glistening brown, black. ruddy filth.
sounds like rustleing stalks of grain. millions of them in unison.

i stomp, set traps. walk through darken infested alleyways.
no sandals adorn my feet on those nights. black boots with steel heals
heavy like firehydraunts.

the rats do not nibble, they stay clear away but i hear there squeaking voices.
i hear them. crying out their existence. Depressed for not finding ways to make life
less fowl.

Id rather be gliding down hills filled with snakes and field mice.
listening to the constant chatter of prairie dogs. As they pop and run..from apartment hole
to apartment hole. or
rest in the tall grass as I stealthfully
glare into the eyes of a resting buffalo.

instead of my thick boots. i ll walk barefoot. carrying a bow and arrow..and not much else.
ill be my own indian tribe, lover, best friend. as I am.
my name will change to parts of songs. and ill vanish and reappear
like spring winds off the pacific. howling and piercing.
calm and flickering.

the rats will find ways to my abodes.
they'll bore through my baseboards. the roaches will climb into the waterspickets.
infesting my tribe. forcing me to wear these black boots.
sleep in them.

their weight is painful and pulling. finding it harder and harder to fly...
my legs grow swollen from the constant lifting. above the ground
teaming with all of these

rats and roaches.