We Walk Honeysuckle plus Jasmine
We walk honeysuckle plus jasmine, wafting,
Dissipating, otherwise thickening feelings;
Loss, compunction, forfeiture, also death.
Natural displays, any period, feel grand.
Such shortfalls’ gleaning, in dealings,
More than change seasons, or holiday
Thresholds. Distinguishably lethargic
Abjurations hurt. We inhale/exhale a lot.
Consider how a bear cub smolders
When exploring her new turf. Some
Litter mates smile not at sunshine,
But when messing with Mama’s kill.
Preferably, sunlight twinkling on sand,
Past moonbeam kissing clouds, brings
Opportunities free of inveigling traps.
Moose still cross rail tracks with safety.
What we ought and ought not to do
Isn’t huntsmen’s games or zoological
Pleasures, no matter how aloof pretense
Paints us; we walk freely toward disaster.
Biting into Bok Choy
Facility with sliced, diced, and drugged words, punctuated by
All manner of lacunas, from arachnid swinging on invisible ropes,
Whose inimitable taste, those cloying references to yesterday’s
Malfeasance, float rivers of uncomfortable questions immediately,
Plus create times when red and blue politicos swarm media outlets,
Maybe parade truths, compromise nations, cost lives, cough phlegm,
Offer camouflage to captured Degas dancers pirouetting, reducing
Secesh plots and redacted government documents to ash or laughter.
Thereafter, initially hastened from taverns, exemplars of social advocacy
As well as persons deigning forbidden contact with breeders, speak out,
Insist on owning all language referring to their bodies and to others’.
Such nature of coup d'état takes place silently, globally, overarchingly.
Given that extreme, most of us reassign stiffs to the rebels’ morgues,
Thus, elevating some among the dead, who otherwise would be
Safe under poppy-ornamented expanses, blue sky, fallen memories.
Tearing inner fibers feels worse than suffering broken wiglaers’ spells
‘cause picking up discarded cupcake wrappers brings imperious ends.
Likewise, making acrid salad culls questionable taste and extra pressures.
The caprices of two-headed wildebeests, from Planet X, fly shotgun,
Influence firstborns’ campaign for odd publishers’ regular sustenance.
Consider that when we fund allies or immerse our toes in sweet chocolate,
It’s like writing flowery vignettes about woodland “days of old” or quaffing
Bad liquor. Transforming into a Furry’s still no escape from childbirth’s pain.
Only original matafamilias, stained with deep age, remain fairly approachable.
