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Dancing with the Marionettes


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


I passed an old man the other day, he was looking up into the sky,
I asked him "what are you looking at?" He replied "what does it matter to you?"
I just continued walking, asking myself his question until it ceased to be a question.
Sometimes all that is left is style and we're sufferers of Tourette's.

Sometimes excitement is puerile and we're dancing with marionettes.
Can a garment be unsewn?  Is there anything to disown?  The principles
of birds have nothing to do with us.  The intonations of backwoods gridlock
translate into not one thing that could embody the human word.  While everything

retreats slightly into everything we are the announcers of all that's coming
in a flash of the camera of the godhead, we are not
entirely conscious of the words precariously formed by design, we are the
activists for sleep, incarcerated in a world of elevators who would not expect

the universe to be hostile?  Who would not sense there is empathy in repugnance?
We have to go through this shit.  We have to
evolve to a hair's breadth of majestic carelessness.  We have to
become the characters in the novel Kafka never wrote, reflect ourselves
in water beneath the bosom of some unnameable bridge somewhere.
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