[Note: Controversial if popular entry. Toyed with the idea of deleting it. Suffice it to say, it is a fictional narrative in prose, and was not intended to cause alarm or strife...]
Have you heard the plaintive cry of the owl?
Each night she begs you to remain
My love. From the kitchen you make a scowl.
Why should your mother restrain
Herself when she and I talk under starlight, the porch
scorched with our cigarette ash?
The scholar loves a warrior: unseemly to these
Chinese eyes. I proselytized to a whore.
Yet you saved money well not whoring yourself.
Relax. Under this gibbous moon
She merely asks, in a half-chicana Napa roar
why you have to leave so soon.
She asked me, as I am to her a son-in-law.
You mentioned that you wish to live no more.
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