Workers, legions of the childless, forever milking the belly of slaves for nectar and tirelessly waiting on their betters. A corporate regality, mighty mounds thrown high, passageways penetrating deeper than tree roots, even ingenious catch basins for rain. But no hearts are captured here. Perfect world, where the slightest twitch of a leg has purpose. Play is treason.
Busy soldiers excise rebels as cancers.
I above taking notes, committing misdemeanors when no one watches, cursing the betters of my kind for their surfeit of honey, and commiserating with slaves of any kind. I am blessed with a costly gift, envy fecund seeds that ripen into the devil s fruit. If I could just plant one in their nest, gnarling their well-ordered channels by growing jealous roots. Germinating acrimony, and yet allowing for maybe one being below to steal a moment for her own to measure her state and to marvel at the dark soil from which we all arose. Mythology Was at the Hellenic-American cultural center, a singles dance.