My Cricket People

My Cricket People

All I seem to notice today are dead crickets. Stepped on dead crickets. Run over by bicycles dead crickets. Run over by rollerbladers dead crickets. Half eaten by ants dead crickets. Picked up and dropped by seagulls dead crickets. Frozen perhaps to death in the night (for they have been cold lately) dead crickets. But why today and why me? Why do they present themselves to me as such a sidewalk carpet, as if I were some long lost cricket Deity happening upon my people at long last, the answer to a million tiny cricket prayers. Why these strange sacrifices? Don’t they know I am not moved in their favor by what in my book is suicide, and mass at that? That I much prefer things alive as long as they keep quiet for that’s why I left them in the first place, their incessant harping, fiddling, backlegging, just couldn’t stand it anymore, much as I loved my chosen people and all that, just had to get out of there, back home to peace and quiet, down the road a bit, past the two outer planets, left at the dead comet, straight ahead—be sure to keep Orion on your right, sharp left at Aldebar, through the electron belt, past the sixteenth vortex (it’s the one with the irregular swirl, keep your distance), fourth planet in, pick any ocean. Home. Home and cricketless. Not here on the pavement though, where all I seem to notice are dead crickets from all kinds of slayings; suicides in my book.

Thoughts? I'd like to hear them.
Ulf Wolf

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