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Portrait of a Young Man as The Artist
Servitude in the interest of righteous journalism
is not the solution to discontent.
It is, however, certain that this,
god willing,
will clear any misconceptions that I have
about journalists.

They drink and guffaw and eat face-sized fruit
on the banks of the Mississippi, languidly relaxing
like the drawl over all those "S's".
Samuel Clemens would be calm,calling the twain of his ship.
These people are derelict in reason,
this we can all see, and are like all partisan writers
that don't write.

Information is the bane of ignorance, no doubt;
but taking that step, away from bliss and crystal understanding
into the murky depths of "I don't know" and
"Who's to say," is steep and disconcerting.
We preach, we writers, from pulpits of print
in the rain.
We cannot outlast our reputation
unless we sink to bottom to find
"I apprehend."

Current Mood: surprised surprised
Current Music: Where did that come from?

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I have built my boredom into a cave
where reflections of prosperity
slink by like burglars.
The shadow of reason fall from my grace,
pooling into a pulp not quit edible -
The reflecting pool evaporates the nearer
I bear.

Eyes, in winter, grey over
and cocoon into a shielded mass
impregnable to the passing predator.
My cocoon or orange and red,
similar to mt butterfly,
is as transparent as the mendacity of these lines.
I am mundane in my leanings and guilty
of the pursuits of weakness and redress.

"Seek not entertainment" is the motto
of the languishing tides - which will mark my wanderings
and offer their own form of punishment.
Reports fall from heaven and paper cuts
multiply in force. I cannot bleed
and refill the ever-lessening pool.
Nor can I swim.

Current Mood: chipper chipper

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