September 28, 2012
Revolutionary, you go clawing at oedipus truth to make compartmentalized sense. Do this to get that, you say. You have many tongues. When you sense one of your mouths taking the reigns, you pursue it for the rest of your life. You question men on statements they made years, months, minutes ago. You erect the white myth of reason. This arbitrarily informs directs and commands you. You hear someone mention suicide and so you step out for a hot dog. Gorging like hogs on charts, results, the electronic label maker abused like a drug. Black pepper, white salt. You Are No Free Poet. Do not ask teacher what buddha means. Do not ask what picasso means. Picasso will not answer. His secretary will pick up the phone- "Call God. We are busy."