Posts for June 12, 2025 (page 5)

You say I’m trying to evoke an emotional response like that’s a bad thing.

What the hell else should I be responding with, calligraphy and parchment?
Smoke signals? Morse code? A hearty thumbs up?

You smiled at me all day, then after lunch you wiped your mouth, pushed yourself back from the table, farted, and started cutting people’s throats.

When all the throats were cut, and you were done, you kept smiling, expecting, what, applause? 

You cut all my friends throats, and when I ask why you say, it’s inappropriate to ask that. You say, now isn’t the time. You say, have some decorum. 

Well, not to get all emotional, but you can decorum my ass, cuz they don’t accept it at the bank. My kids can’t eat decorum. Feed decorum to your AI pet, and see what it makes of it. (It won’t make anything, but it might show you this poem, and you might finally feel.)

if the sky were cotton candy, you’d be the sprinkles
that dot the air, a confetti of color.
storms of chunky cookie dough gobble you up,
tasting your inner rainbow.

black licorice and dark chocolate threaten your sweetness,
and you invent new flavors: savory, salted, smoky.
metamorphosis: black sprinkles live in the sky,
and it is so damn beautiful.

Even the rarest flower blooms
not for the eye of the passerby,
but for the quiet thrill
of her own becoming—
each petal a vow
to joy, to light,
to the rhythm of the earth.

She opens slowly,
not in haste but in hope,
stretching toward the sun
like a lover waiting
for hands that understand
the art of gentleness.

The bee, her familiar,
enters with reverence,
not to take—
but to join in the sacred exchange.
Their dance is old as time—
a brushing of breath,
a silent song of giving and becoming.

And if a lover finds her—
overcome by her wild grace—
he may reach with trembling hands,
pluck her in awe,
and lay her before another heart,
saying only:
“I saw something beautiful,
and thought of you.”

Promise me something:
don’t extinguish a flame, dear,
for tyranny’s sake.

“People are pure at birth.

Surely, we as a mankind are better than this.”

My nonna scoffed at my naivety, 
“We most certainly are not. There’s no proof that we are.

Only proof that we aren’t.”

Mankind
is not better than this.

The scent of a flower
the buzz of a bee
the whisper of trees in the breeze.

The source of the power
that surges from you
to merge with the multitudes
fighting for truth
disarming evil
restoring peace.

Beauty keeps you alive
with strength to survive
and keep truth alive.

As he sits pretty
banishing the hardworking
America fights.

an afternoon well spent
driving country roads
     I’d yet to drive
investigating the blooms
     yellow flowers on tomato plants
seeing the last of the strawberries, remaining on the vines
sheep, pigs, miles yet ahead
seeing a deer cross the road, midday
a well kept church, far from a town

I’m curious if anyone
has driven every Kentucky highway
     each route and numbered road
no shoulder 
    curves and surprising stop signs
or if there is always
at least one more, awaiting