Stridulation, or The Cricket Factory Closed in London Town

“The biggest barrier is the yuck factor”

—CBC News, March 29, 2026

I wouldn’t eat them

either. I’m not John

the fucking Baptist. No honey/

maple syrup

could ever make a difference.

Gravy can only do

so much. How you hide

says more than what is hidden.

But this has nothing to do

with brunch, or

the messenger of the Lord.

Or the mustard by

which you’ll cloak your

ballpark frank. You’re out at

first 

before you’ve swung the bat.

The unsighted cannot see

what they are chewing.

Their tongues do

twice the work. I imagine that the

aphids taste much better—

when you’re told they’re Frito-Lay.

When Doritos fails to drop

from the vending

machine, it becomes filet mignon.

Starvation makes you mad.

Look into the vacant

eyes of Belzec. Tell me they

wouldn’t have swallowed

caterpillar stew. My flippancy’s

gone too far.

There’s a reason

for best before. Lest we’ve

butterflies in our

gut. This has nada

to do with nerves.

Who will croon of

evening when the

cicadas have been stilled?

What stands in for Luna—

as the smoke

ascends like cloth

to veil her scars?

As kids we thought it

cheese. Swiss is the

biggest rip-off

of them all. You pay

as much for holes

as for the milk. Craters an

empty bowl

on which to ponder.

We say that something’s

pretty if it’s never

marred by life. A collision

is just the fervency

of love; its impatience;

a kiss that’s leapt too quick.

Even the fireflies

flee, their taillights

in the distance like

an ordered evacuation.

And once that they have left,

night will be bereft

of all the beauty

we failed to hear—

the aria of a star;

a shepherd’s sentinel,

hooting all is clear—

the serenade of frogs

we thought off-key; or the

multi-legged creeping

down their throats,

a second chance to

trill with fallen wings.

Andreas Gripp

March 29, 2026

RF Image