Close your eyes and welcome the festival
that never concludes but now and then rests
as the colors and the musical feel
sense and dance best when evenings are cool
letting cubes clink in glasses, kissing you.
Tasty treats emit in a constant tide
aromas woven with pepper and breast
(and onions were made to tantalize).
Cold brew plentitude to chase that filet.
I guess anything ought to be fair game.
I say so after experiences
expressly designed to drive men bonkers.
They entail rabbit holes. They know
their cute noses and twitches and whiskers
are explicitly irresistible.
Thank someone managing the Universe
there are chances to come to one’s senses
and get to building a shrine of one’s own.
the ball by the river is in full swing
and in sweaty attendance a newly
risen forefather derives as much thrall
in electricity as the music –
hearing nothing heavenly as guitar
and microphone bark and twang; and vixens
primed and dressed for dancing; darker news:
what future era can hope to top this
so happily lackadaisical
had to someday taper
into an uphill grinding slog
just when the season turneth to thaw,
and the meadows level and lush
in virgin whites and decadent reds
a fountain’s busy pummeling trims,
all carry on in careless frolic
in what may as well be a postcard world.
The eagle is considered majestic
or so esoteric legends depict,
conveniently omitting a little
detail, such as the fact that the eagle
observes cuisines via scavenger eyes.