I had quite the feisty colony of bees stored up,
only to leave them back in Georgia–
in the hands of my dingus brother, no less.
God, what kind of mess did I make of this?
I miss them lil yeller fellers, but
becoming a full-time yankee tartographer
means you need to make supreme sacrifices
for the good of the craft and its reception.
It’s bad enough
that folks have never heard of this field,
and even worse when they just shrug it off
like some kind of joke
without really stopping to think about it.
You know what? I don’t have the time
to convert the unbelievers anyway. Matter
I’m gonna go get my bees back. Tartography
just ain’t what it used to be.
Speckled timberjacks innovate in the leanest and meanest of times, over all the whinging and cringing, crybabies taking turns beating their chests as though abalone were as valuable as diamonds (although, in our faery-less global community, that sentiment should be closer to truth than it currently stands).
Sentiment breaks backs as a matter of fact. You could say that the finer the rampage, the cheaper the glint recommended by the turnstile technician–at least that’s what I’ve come to understand as a giblethead in society’s white pages.
Although, the sorrow contained within a single spätburgunder can hardly be measured with a doughnut and Jeopardy rerun (even a Ken Jennings episode where he wins $75K, sorry to say).
I stuffed a pepper with no intention of eating or serving it, convinced that food inside other food is a sin. Not as big a sin as others, but you can’t just pick and choose the lighter heathen actions and pretend they don’t matter; if it’s a sin, you just don’t do it and that’s that. Nobody will absolve you of your sins, you’ll have to carry them with you until the moment your soul reintegrates with the cosmos, never again to occupy a physical body. Believe me, the more sins you commit, the longer it’ll take to reach the ultimate disembodiment touted by Buddhists for centuries. Most souls are slotted to occupy physical bodies for an indeterminate number of years, give or take a few millennia. Sins are responsible for piling on years, and practically everything is a sin. If there were no sins, most souls would be done within a few dozen lifetimes. But what fun would that be?