I am nearly Hari-Krishna-like when it comes to my belief

in the universal sacredness of life.

Yes, even Hitler’s life.

Stow him away in some tiny closet behind the Port-a-Pots

of some huge-sloping-land-fill that accepts only toxic waste!

You know the stuff!

Chicken shit mixed with radio-active-balls of styrofoam…

But don’t kill him.

Life is sacred, after all…

Except for certain bugs.

Mosquitos, for example.

Their existence is based upon making life miserable for millions,

humans and beasts alike.

And spreading milaria.

(And I’m a camper! So there!)

Therefore, swat ’em whenever the opportunity buzzes by.

Highest on my short-list-of-life-forms deserving of extinction

is the cockroach, regardless of what ever it’s called.

(“Palmetto” for example, here in the Romantic South.

Or plain ‘ol roach without the cock

scurrying en masse on a NYC condo-kitchen -floor,

despite it’s gentrification status,

under the light from the chandelier you just switched on.

Start stomping when you stop shrieking.

A coralerary to “I think, therefore I am” (Des Carte, maybe…):

“A roach lives, therefore kill it!” (Greenman, definitely…)

If I go to Hell, (even if only for squishing Palmettos)

I believe I will discover that Satans minions

have devolved since Lucifers Fall From Grace

to the level of cockroaches with pitchforks

welded to each of their spindly legs.

So, go ahead!

Stomp away!

Don’t think twice, as you might

about a bed bug who’s simply trying to stay warm

on a cold, winters night.

Poor little thing!