It's a question of honor.
that women don top hats Victorian,
Victorian in nature with velvet
ribbon spun during a Luna lit night.
When the tambourine man is followed
by a hanging song around his neck
like honeysuckle twisted to bleed
jellyfish tentacle stabs on his face
-face lost in sketches of autumn
where newsreels blare hammer and cycles
against the backdrop of stars and stripes
or severed men in leopard skin tight jackets.
Is it a question of honor true
when we swim in memories’ darkness
only to know progress is hatred
filling us with poison from the past.