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Jane of the Jungle (she’s all good)
charmed our world as Darwin’s daughter.
Anglican primates notwithstood,
her leaky theories held some water.

Streams of ngombe, sacred cows
were celebrated. What were these
to which the simian cosmos bows?
Irrelevant hypotheses.

Selecting great apes (naturally)
Miss Misanthrope researched, with love;
her theories, stated factually,
were hailed as truth from God above.

Hoping for reason, shadowing Man
the graybeards came for tempting fruit
unaware of their part in the plan:
to be used, like tools (but more hirsute).

Termites on a slender stalk
delighted hungry primate souls.
Her ripe bananas were the talk
of primatological controls.

peeling off; mzungu starkness
starred the Tanzanian night.
Chimping out, she lit the darkness
claiming scientific right.

Sweating out the Tarzan fever,
naming names while hugging apes
let us, laughing, love and leave her
to her anthropoid escapes.

You're really pretty strange.
The way others speak of you.
Without ever really knowing you,
Or having spent time in your presence.
Often they talk at you,
then listen to you speak.
But seem to hear words
different from the
ones you spoke.

Strange, quite strange.
Though, it seems to work well for you.
Whatever you take or say.
whoever you bruise;
metaphorically or literally.
Is transformed then by some act
of inner god, to acts which
sanctify the passion that
you inspire.
That passion which sparks bonds,
matrimony and procreation.

And yet it seems, as songs
has often said, you really are forever.
Even if you are not with
them forever.

A new species still being studied-

They have a compulsive obsession with mutilating their bodies
They yank out hairs in the place on their face made for expression
Daily they scrape off natural hairs from their limbs
And from under them, considering the act as simple hygiene practice

Some will even lay in a chamber of radiation to cook skin browner
And smear a smelly cream to make the skin look slimy shiny and '****'
They scorch their head hair to change the texture for a day
And they draw on their faces with crayons made from wax and oils

They prioritize displaying of the body shape over movement
With their tight denim body coverings and waist clinchers
They wear coverings of their feet with a stick replacing the heel
To look physically attractive, despite the injuries and lesions

They're expected to keep a casing over their chest tissues in public
They hide their pheromones with alcohol and fake smell of plants
They keep private and hidden that they perform excretory acts
And they're never content with the meat casing they're trapped inside

Only (almost) satisfied looking at their reflection and seeing a lie

Here in poets' glory, we bask....
Not long ago, a bard did ask,
"When did poetry become ethnography?"
Verse is part of human anthropology,
Even part of Christianity,
Millions of people read the psalms,
Millions of folk read their Koran,
As part of their faith of Islam,
Poetry is a sweet and sour dish,
You can interpret as you wish,
Each verse is a snapshot of society,
Part of our cultural anthropology,
So, "When did poetry become ethnography?"
This muse has set us a task,
Good question to ask, good question to ask,
As here, in poets' glory, we bask.....

I’d been reading about boy insemination in the Sambia, Papau New Guinea. As a ritual rite of passage in this war-torn enclave, boys aged 8 to 10 were taken from their mothers to become men. This ritual included things a Westerner couldn’t fathom doing to a child - shoving sugar cane up their noses until they poured blood, forcing them to **** flutes to mimic *******, and ultimately, swallowing “male milk,” their sponsors’ *******, which according to tradition will rid them of their evil mothers’ poison and make them warriors.

Heavy ****.

You know the response that happens in your body when you experience the luxury of your food begin too hot? You kind of breath in and out, rapidly, mouth open, until the food cools down? Sitting in the cafeteria, eating a bowl of vegetables and quinoa created in a vegan space certifying no cross-contamination, I found myself making this face. This stupid, *****, “oh no my mouth may feel weird for a day or two” reflex that immediately made me sick.

I decided to close my mouth. To lean into the fleeting, no-more-than-inconvenient pain instead of running from it.

I think it may have changed my life.