the magpie's machine gun shattering croak.
i too would have wished it,
if the damage was unintentional
the two of them would
have taken me to a hospital,
instead... they took me home...
and that was the end of the near-death experience,
but as one old man said:
what guarantee do i have to have fallen
and later not be bound by a wheelchair?
none, i said, three stiletto dances later,
i'm seeing a wheelchair-bound youth
giving a rap tat tat lingo western motto
'boots on the ground boots on the ground
so we can print our stupid opinions
as if they're morals' dance...
but then i was walking into the woods
with a migrating cloud of crow...
a migration of messerschmitts...
and into the forest, sat on a wooden stump
waiting for the owl's call...
but i left the forest before the night came.
what sort of power is this, a power that cannot
reach me, but requires a passiveness, a permission
to only enact choices like abraham's choice
to circumcise himself and then later circumcise
isaah (translated as a need to sacrifice with death)
to disapproval, because it mentioned
circumcision, like: an unsheathed sword.
so what power is there, if power is riddled with
bureaucracy and muddled, and chaotic, and in
quicksand? before it rises, it falls, like an weak dough
that is baked for pita bread rather than bloomer bread
of working yeast? what power is that, if the power
is merely a sidelined chronology of passed-on
responsibilities? democracy is but an idle fancy
that breeds lost young men and exploitative old
perverts... the old men should be enshrined with
making decisions, but in a democracy they're deviating
into thoughts about ******* and ***** extinction...
if you dare educate children you also dare to
not educate old men, and for that reason, you're at
your weakest.
