𝐈 𝐚𝐦  𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐬,
𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞.
𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭.
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧,
𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥.
𝐒𝐨 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩.

The pathetic get pedantic
with thoughts mostly planted
the world they misunderstand it
yet there’s still discourse demanded
so they take terminology and brand it
as whatever they need to stand fit
and begin digging us into the **** ditch
of their messy rhetorical **** sandwich.

They use the term doublethink
as a subtle wink
to how they’re dumb and stink
on a drug that sinks.

They use echo chamber
to dismiss with anger
the opinions of strangers
for perceived danger.

Anything they don’t like is virtue signaling
it’s my Aunt Gertrude’s symphony
to construe simply
the spider’s spindling.

They call others thought police
while they have a lot to preach
because they want a monopoly
over what the public got to see.

They use the term hivemind
to deny why
the other side cries
saying they want a prize
for parroting the right thing
they avoid the scorpion’s sting
by diminishing and destructing
the other’s mind as nothing.

All of these terms have their place
yet we use them to race
to arguments lacking grace
putting palm to face
to bomb the brakes
of the train that takes
us to a lane of fake
******* banter waste.

Are you truly ready for your desire
To become a full burning bonfire
That would mean the wanting
Has been received
Then crystallized
Not just a fuzzy dream
And fuzzy dreams are easier to digest
They don’t need actualization and self-respect
Wanting is just needing and that feels the best
A passion pines a promise token
For my wanting once received
Can’t be a promise to be broken

The sprinkled moondust
hovering above the wisps of clouds,
veil the puzzle pieces
as they linger
in the pools of wisdom
left behind by the sages,
where the thinkers have bathed
and left their sorrows,
to come out immaculate;
leaving a legacy
for the new intellectuals to put together.

There IS a reason we're told to beware of what we...everything, really.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMLXXXVIII)


Swear off the pleasures I knew ere cuz thence
I'm too, what, eh? beleaguered to avail
Me of indulgence, yes.  No choc'late, pale
As loving oft to nibble it fr'intents
Home in my father's house.  And thus, what hence?
The id'ot box passe, I'd in betrayl
Now clean forgot the litrature's detail
Which shaped my thoughts and manners, yea, my sense.
Take oh, the lux'ry of an essay fer
Lo, minutes on familiar turf I knew
Weeks, months, so many years ago as twere
Likeas my other "food," and what ah, to
Effect?  As if my thinking clears in poor
'Scuse for brief seconds, oh how sweet tis too!

24May19d

Where's this abject
anger come from?

Is it innate or
is it
an acquired trait?

Who owns these lips
grinning at gains?

Out comes the wolf?
Out comes the hominid.

Who owns these tongues
dripping silver?

Produce and consume.
That's how it is.

What an art it is
to dispel doom.

Tried selling concepts?
That's where it is.

When I was a boy, the castles of education
soared impossibly large: Brick-laid with Blake, mortared
with Marx, wound round-about with subsidized ivy, rooted
in the 17th century.

And me, just me, on two legs, from 1981.

The flickering incandescence of rebellion started in
these fortressed halls; ideas more snapped than volleyed, until
at the end of our emotional tether, we society on our pale legs,
we sure did fall to a gust of reason.  

Emotion pounded at the walls in every century; and minds, fortified with logic and stoney fact, beat back, beat down, beat away the
Crying, yelling minds. For tears do not make progress.

I was tender, careful, deferential in my youth—an idealist without ideas; merely the powder keg of emotion lurking somewhere beneath my epithelial smarts. Ready and willing to rain against the parapets of education with unsightly feeling.

And I stood, in my academic frock, at the feet of the great hall of learning. And I wondered if my legs could stand it.

Is it any wonder I was raised to be an intellectual?