why ya buggin'...

crickets hover. i never knew. i'd never seen one toe down like isadora duncan. ping. suspended, legs a-dangle. all across the neon fractured sidewalk. perilously pass between the little boy's stride. and then out into night.

one summer night in pahrump, along the dark desert stretches: billboards alive with grasshoppers. those fellas can hover. but they don't move. they wet the pavement under the tires. the pumpstation tarmacs and canopies grey with hoppers. the windshield. the brave motorcyclist. the plantings eaten into lace. none of that was an exercise in grace. just appetite for leaf and fuck. and light. they liked the light.