orange cones
&
y e l l o w
t
a p e—Nothing
to see
w
here? hear”
see is
what i think i
thinkyoushould;
say do what i
f r e e l y
em
bedded in I—
My
herostory; (limits
endowed the scope—action
controlled by
knowledge]
true,
even heroes
can become jaded to their promises, tis noble duty
to their state to spoil
inside their o w n Suit of Just
ice)(the state is not me,you,us,them, we’re all a l i e n;]
cast
to the fringes
of dissidence,
my sweet
d i s
a r r a y; can there be a center to this shrouded mass?
behind face of the clock
work(the cow
ard’s mask.
(Mystic Machine, please
cloak us
in hour
uncouth explanation of the our!
un
burden our backs
of those crosse
d t’s & dotted i’s,
so we may
be f r e e to carry our religion
sans
the
immobile prescriptions
of our structures—
innumerable volumes of procedural scripture & scroll,
Mandate and Prophecy.(
…but OUR brain weighs a ton;
(yes
but w h o
stored it in the w r o n g vat?
“In fact, we object to the framing of that concept—I
control my mind, to the full
est
extent nature a l l o w s
Just
ask the cat
who assumes itself
Master of Domain—I lay claim
as gatekeeper of
the input, to engineer the flow of my information
consciously, constantly,
without a shadow
of intellectual guilt
—This is my herostory; if you
aren’t with me,
you are againstme”
Every
body got a story
with a hero, even ideas. but there’s alotta b o d i e s;
This world
must be seething with villains too,
the worst clothcut of villain, the most sinuous form of e v i l. that of
Average Evil— the
unremarkable,
tacit kind;
but i over
stand—it’s philosophically strain
ing
to
precisely and definitely
define players vs. pieces
Wheres the end? slow down
we don’t even know
where to start?
blistering mound of
opinion turn man of reason sheepish to
analyzing, let alone
cutting the circulation
to the veins of ideological fires,
sure to wait
until the b o d y is scorched
we may examine
in order and consolidated, complete,
and stored in an urn.
a slave to Time, unfit for given task—
to proof eternal equations,
Mechanical narratives reach unintelligibility
when incorporating those remote
rules of the game: counterintuitive
to our abilities—
mysterious areas
rife for exploiting,
with juicy soundbites
rather than laying out full-courses;
How can
one T h i n k and C r e a t e
when surrounded by
f o o d...mm
but can find no nourishment? (then
it'd be
time to survive, a narrow state of being:
s u r v i v a l—it's either
sanity or intellectual
consistency
"ya can't c h o o s e both)
On the play for some action
but whose knowledge am i acting on?
even as i type this,
searching for the path
to distant answers but
whose questions am i posing?
