This afternoon I noticed my senses acutely
for they are need of sharpening.
I realize the words of my loved ones
have been at me for so long,
they are like frail nails scratching at granite.
They aren't getting any sharper;
meaning has been lost in litany;
intent has been lost in ritual.
I cry small talk is not our culture
but Confucius sticks his ugly face up,
so I will have to also sharpen my knives
dismember his fear and hatred;
throw their remnants in a pyre
that has been waiting for three thousand years.