---october, same year, after the bomb,
How should we train the surplus of boys?
We can't use them to sweep chimneys any more.
Nor work in Nike's winged victory factory,
child labor's not a means to an end
any more.
A seller must sell such as toys in Thailand today.
There are too many to waste efficiently in war.
A global conundrum beating time in our global brain.
A conundrum beating cadence for the dancers on parade.
Proud dancers with a vision...
Utopian distanty visiony,
since nought left ought as our only
understood shelter,
from the storm. Cower under ought, my child,
every thing is under control.
You are welcome in our safe place,
was once the reply to thanks, in essence, that was meant.
Now, it's no problem, serves and means nothing, in return.
Why should any boy grow into man? Let them play.
Entertainment's all that needed,
that'n' bread, with sugar,
that'll fixit, do the trick, keep the boy in hero role, virtually
forever, never growing
wiser.
Virtual virtue. Tech them that.
Virtually anyone can see the connection,
virtue, virtually means
What? Exactly. The act is outed.
Virtue went forth from Jesus, there's the bomb.
What does virtue being drawn through thy very e-sense
feel like?
Would we know, you or I, the feeling of virtue going out,
escaping?
A shocking short circuit? or a buzzer triggered by alarming
outflow of essential immaterial
stuff. Unnamed, unspeakable stuff?
Immaterial. The judge declares. The clar-if-ication
means look
elsewhere.
Virtue is too dangerous for little boys at play.
'Tis a cept, signified, perhaps
that
is what a sceptre does, officially it de-sig-nates who got it,
when virtue first
appeared needing shelter in the storm.
lightning lightening,
immaterial. Nonsense, can you sense immaterial matter.
You can't touch it. The judges believe.
Nor can mortals
even imagine immaterial matters reserved for Kings and king builders.
So why seek whys, when nothing matters more than...
why? what? who? when? where?
altogether on the six o'clock news.
All-in-one, all the knowing needed. Be joyfully entertained.
Sing along, meaningless songs,
doo-dah day.
Hallelujah (wait, did you say that? Out loud, ever? In a song?
What if... never mind.. could be a trap. Don't think it means anything. An old fashion past, that's all, now.
No magi utterance that changes
matters, in real time.
Not words and ideas, but
Clocks rule this domain, it's minions are the yoke bearers pulling
loads declared worthy of laboring incessantly happy.
The yoke is on you. (Take mine, it's light.) Carry on.
Take Sisyphus, for ensample. He's as happy as a clam, they say.
Those who live near the see declare the wee bivalves happy as pi.
We don't know why.
That's all.
At this particular point in time, as the ped-ants say.
Let patience perfect that which concerns you.
Let simple morph to sublime.
See, Jesus winked.
Epic poems are a burden to the reader, this is part of something much longer This poem's been keeping time with the one life I had to live, this time, guiding me to what I am, not what I have become. Tell me if i said it right.
