Words on the Weekend

Anyone who “acts their age”
IS their age.
 

Health is noisy.

A Revolutionist
learns to be secretly silent.

 

A rhyme scribbled by the pay phone
in a certain meta-specious, far away bar:
“The master mind
of things sublime
is he who knows
the sex of time.”

 

Right in the midst of everybody,
this one man stood and declared,
“I cannot be satisfied,
and I shall not rest, until I find
a religion that makes me feel guilty for being alive;
a ruler or government that makes me feel I woe it;
a job I’ve got to defend, and relationships so deep,
so strong and meaningful, that I have mixed feeling
about them.” 

(Perhaps I’m not feeling well,
but I can’t seem to think of any comment to add.)

 

Those who pretend the most
may win the most.
 

Words ain’t what they used to be.
Words ain’t what they used to be.
Words ain’t what they used to be.

J.

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