There will always be the ideas of gods,
demons and “man-the-fallen-angel,”
as long as the intellect is able to believe
that it can think about things greater
than it can think about.

I guess I always hoped, (perhaps foolishly),
that many of you would be more subversively shaken
regarding rhetorical structures of City life, after I
revealed to you that the inventor of the Franklin Stove
was Benjamin Stove.  (But I guess hope can spring
eternal in a foolishly hopeful breast.)

Anyone even resembling a Real Revolutionist
wouldn’t admit that things were regressing,
even if he thought they were.
(And the Hidden Chorus sang,
“Does That About Cover It Like A Blanket Or What?”)

A fellow next to me on a recent sojourn said,
“It strikes me that if history took up anymore time
than it does now, we’d all be in trouble.”

I hereby nominate for our monthly, Ole Sorehead Award – or even
the more prestigious, Medal Of Miscellaneous Misanthropy,
the fellow who recently said the following, “I understand that
in life some play the flute, some the violin, and still others the
tympani, but that still doesn’t mean you gotta like music.”

If you say too much,
those who can tell, can tell.


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