God of the Grasshoppers

by David Dannov

He worked for a large missile company.

He was in charge of many men.
He’d graduated from Stanford

or some high academic university.
Then, one day, through a series of events,

he’d found out how his research

ended up contributing to an explosion of lies.
He couldn’t handle that his life, his endeavors

had anything to do with killing innocent lives.
He didn’t want to be associated

with a war-mongering-machine.
So he quit his job, sold his house, his car,

gave up all monetary possessions, shaved his head,

and lived in the back woods

of Seattle, near the shores

of a small, artist bay; he built a shelter out of shells

and broken plates and metal objects

and even the broken parts

of a crashed plane.
He lived like this for years

without anyone knowing who he really was.
The locals thought of him as a freak, a homeless man, a recluse.
But a woman I know, who lived in this area,

became his girlfriend for a while

and she learned all about him.
She fell in love with this man,

this six-foot-five,

bald, albino

white man.
She saw him one day, sitting in the woods

by himself, naked,

in a clearing with open grass,

holding a grasshopper in his open palm,

and smirking

like a saint

who should be revered

by us all.