Moana Script
Let's workshop this poem about how outcries against cultural appropriation serve as a coping mechanism to deflect from the terrifying truth of human existence: that nothing is ultimately up to us.
scent of the day: Baraonda, by Nasomatto. A merlot-and-bourbon take on amber (closer in smell to Ambre Sultan than to Overture Man), Baraondo—whose broad appeal, like Chergui, does not sacrifice artistry—opens with a smooth hit of whiskey (rounded, not in anyway rugged or medicinal like in Fumidus) followed by the impression of an oak cask still damp with its aged contents: a low-peat whiskey and cherry-plum merlot mixed with jammy rose and indolic jasmine, cedar chips and sandalwood—the thick and cozy result, perfect for autumnal evenings, elevated by a musky floral powder evocative of dusty books (almost the same desiccated hay tobacco in Chergui) and sweetened into pecan-praline territory by caramel-vanilla hints of honeyed cinnamon butter, lactonic coconut, and roasted marshmallow (no char, just patient browning that makes for a fluffy inner cream).
Moana Script
Shrieking against appropriation
boils down to deflection
from a truth that humans—
star-faring critters
who Swiss army their own legs
to escape a trap—can perhaps face
without suicide: not one
scintilla of motion, thought,
bottoms out causally within us.