Thursday, May 18, 2017

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Standardize your child. Primer: Neat rows of square desks forsake the circle. (Passive-voice) lines are drawn between math and language, art and science, music and movement. Math is a living, breathing, moving mass of color, sound, and light. Find the stained glass window to the temple deep in your meaning. You will recognize it by the shape of your gaping mouth.

Correlate anything with everything. Forge philosophy in a fire, not in the upper stratosphere of academic ash. Fuck meatless metaphysics. Look infinity in the face. Take the gut-punch. Take its air in your lungs. Bellow into the depths and befriend worthy echoes. Pound for pound, this is smithery. We step over the homeless woman dying on the sidewalk.

Justice is the gavel in my heart, pounding when I see myself in the mirror of you. Register the demons to become human. Justice rests on our convictions. Parole the margins.

Let's count the things we know. 1. We are whole. 2. There is no land, so let's stop flapping our wings. Let's freefall through the winds of change. 3. Not a muttered shrug, but a diamond-eyed revelation: I don’t know.

Where the head reigns without the heart, walk out the door. Only read philosophy that holds up from the curb of a crackhouse. Wear an amulet against what? Be a selfless sieve, so ghosts drift through. Ante up. Be the paradox of taking ownership of no property: I have nothing, and I stake a claim on it. 

Pedestals make parallax. Evolution does not imply upward mobility or improvement. If you don’t build a tower, you can’t fall from it. We forecast our own future in the turnstile of oppression. Prescription: A sprig of thistle. A fervent blip from the vagrant who spouts deep, unbidden truth. Forge with your hammer a cradle that holds the old woman you will never step over again.

Poet, heal thyself! Form with your tongue a remedy. Every pronouncement, a decree. Your body will still become ash. Cremation is a cure. Until then, we break in fragrant throes, the scent of truth hot on our hands.

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