Honey
 


Money, honey, money is what makes the world spin and yet I spin around it, sticky like honey.  Money is honey that sweet tasting honey that spins you into expensive, less expensive, more expensive, almost as expensive as what you want situations that grab at your sanity like bees to a bud, to a flower.  Honey, money is the reason we fight.                             

 

Fighting is not victory, victory is not happiness, happiness is not money, honey and I won't stand for the honey of capitalism choking off my air for a second longer, long seconds of waiting for an outcome that won't come out to where I spend my mornings on the sun soaked bed next to you.  The honey that sweetens my tea is not as sweet as that which buys the tea, puts it in a transparent, tissue like bag and gives it that smell, that smell like flu in grandma's sun soaked kitchen.

 

Kitchens make me itch, itchy kitchens where people expect cooking and pot roasts and warm and soft muffins to warm their itchy bellies and coat them with the honey that equals satisfaction. Satisfaction comes with knowing you've eaten all the honey and the president will go hungry tonight.

 

We'll never eat all the hony, honey because our bellies are too full of disapointment and the fullness that comes from emptiness that comes from the money that haunts us in our sleep.  Hauntings can be taken care of like bee stings, honey to the wound and a good ignorance of self.  But honey I can take care of you.