Such a rage boils my blood whilst listening to the ignorant ones.
My knee jerks to curse and wish them failure;
but, what I exude wilt come back three times as strongly to me. So, I don’t.
The golden ratio of a basic rule.
A simple, plastic bag billows, impaled on a tree.
An ugly reminder I live well inside the veil,
keeping one foot Here and one foot There.
Everything smells of sautéed shiitake when I feel this way.
Entropy has become this country.
Voting is not a privilege;
It is a right.
And Mister GOP, if you say “politics is a zero sum game” before the highest court of this land,
then you concede that leadership is not your forte.
Go, Jim Crow, we are sick of your antiquated quagmire.
Such attempts to disenfranchise will surely backfire.
The oppressed are motivated.
Your conservative base becomes lazy when inconvenienced.
Reaping what you’ve sown wilt be your future problem.
As they say in fencing:
We are en garde.
My patron saint must be Augustine for I have nothing to give but The(se) Confessions.
When you find meaning in everything, everything suddenly becomes overwhelming.
Sannyasi is a medicant whose anagram corresponds to [dictamen].
Dictamen en Español/a equals opinion. In English, it is a pronouncement. Rule.
The plural? Dictamina.
I am æ’scribe, a vessel, a medium.
My sacred Contract.
Rubbing this pebble until it becomes a philosopher’s stone. The Great Work.
The rite of writing.
I know the goat, Baphomet, but only casually; yet, s/he asks me to call they/them by another sobriquet.
S/he asks me to play my favorite game, inquiring “What is the difference between
[CAVALRY] and [CALVARY]?”
“How very cavalier this question is which Y’all ask of this cavalier servente.”
They laugh; because, I have responded with a statement asking them to acknowledge the difference between two very different things.
“Parçigal sounds presumptuously pretentious,” they reply.
“She has not sounded at all, in ages, seemingly.”
Talking heads bobble.
My inner witch cobbles an awful howl of a hyena’s cackle.
So, I cast myself into the prowling orange cat and he into me;
leaving my body still and purring, and I becoming him trotting over superfluous, left leaves.
Leavening. Bread trying to rise on the level.
Yeasty and active.
Pouncing high onto window ledges to stick my wet, pink nose against panes where it surely doesn’t belong.
Letting slant rhymes mime poetry because cats don’t have to be wordsmiths.
Trump and Wolf talking Portland protester strategy.
From Seattle, I say: leave our nation’s miles of isles of misfit toys alone.