My cauldron bubbles in its boil. A sacred prayer to the dead man chicken in my pot.
And, the last three years have been such an eternity that any song both brings me to proudly stand on toes with limbs extending past 90° to Earth’s curvature.
Whilst also reducing me to tears without my understanding why.
The legacy and curse of a dancer’s ballet-cy.
Words invented while subterfuge may whisper context.
Lost on most of my friendly vigilantes.
And whilst a boiling cauldron sounds dramatic, it is nothing more than a beautiful breast in spices, the most important of which being garlic.
Whole cloves and bay leaves.
Magic so simply esoteric that many mistake it for being erudite.
Just read, sweet things.
Nothing more simplistically
Into a proper place.
And, the uninitiated may unabashedly speak volumes whilst claiming the Heyoka status.
When did admitting yourself to be The Fool become so unseemingly.
Chicken nervously almost cooked and begging shredding.
And the act requires meticulous tediousness.
Yet, if you want to consume a sacrificed carcass should anything less be expected?
And I miss the Jamaican aroma. Unallowed here. But, the rite of alcohol pales.
The breast resists shredding.
Respect for sacrifice;
so I rest
before the rebeginning