The More We Go The More We Don’t Know A Thing

Even the yellowjackets are confused. The mosquitos, the wasps & the bees all in a tizzy. 

Say brotha it must be August, but I don’t hear the cicadas hollering with those big ass lungs. What the fuck is happnin’? 

There ain’t a flower to steal or skin to bite into. Just yesterday sweat pooled above my lip in the middle of this hot ass winter. 

I don’t know what’s going on and the yellowjacket who decided to use my apartment as hospice, don’t either. He asked to bum a cig. I told him I don’t smoke, and he let out of a string of obscenities which you do when you’re dying. I offered him leftover lentils. 

He looked up at me slow.

Sweet cakes, you’ll never stop being confused ‘cause small patches change just as quickly as the world does. 

I ask him how he knew much about the restofthaworld. 


I’ve heard your prayers at night. Begging. Bargaining. Answers don’t really do much. Might I suggest not looking for them. Just—

& and the damn ministering yellowjacket croaked and I sucked his corpse up into the vacuum and finished the lentils.