Sunday, July 19, 2015


The oak tree there is still singing the blues;
some druid scoundrel is trimming limbs, another
enchanting this ancient forest. There is no more.
My own love is a liar whose emotions run cold.
Everyone stands around claiming this is religion.
'When Bob McNamara ran this war, at least we knew
what we were doing: sure, there were daily body counts,
but it gave us a sense of progress too, seeing all that
all the time. You would turn on some 1967 TV, and 
just watch the dead heads roll by, names and numbers
and places, while you knew somewhere their mothers
cringed. War is hell, I've heard some asshole said.'
Can anyone here imagine that I've been alive ten 
thousand years and more, and that there's not really 
any Time anyway - and I can tell you, having seen it 
from both sides. I am the adventure I live, I make 
what I have. I have all that I experience, and my 
experience affords me the roiling strength to make 
more. Don't those slick bastards ever understand  -  
all that we are, we make it be, constantly.
There's just no place to be aloof.
I don't react; others react to me.

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