Stopping to let them through
4/17/2023 Past midway
Bits of meat 4/17/2023, Con/Jur/d Your ancestors, she said ate people, I swear they didn’t Started with a photo of food, been popular for awhile Even they had cannibals in their bloodline, don’t want to upset Fast food joints should come with a trigger warning Like in the Black Forest and the hams hung above the hearth An untimely death and elders hung, til spring, long after hams eaten O, I see she said, Hansel and Gretel, warnings about those who enjoyed it Not like now, everything at a distance, still, eat the poor Slowly, with less guilt and saying they chose this, bite For bite.
Not what we wanted Con/Jur/d, 4/15/2023 Found the title, unused by itself, while other, better poems, lept-free, languished There are stories of a poetry river, tea, and rice wine, and rice paper, floating from The Head of Divinity although without context it’s always mistranslated And by decree and pleasure they would compose, add to transcribe poems Bamboo and Morning Glory scented breezes, peak offerings, and like it Wasn’t written in heaven thunder, lightning sank the best, clearest Words, and now we fish trying to snag the Golden Carp who swallowed These turning words, the ones you needed, but didn’t want making sense of all things.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 4/17/2023
They ought to take more care if they're going to operate a funeral home