Monday, November 4, 2013


And it’s true that some thought
He wrought to wear a human face
And actually seemed
Most decent with his military insignias on.
He speaks with that sort of passion and depth,
It seems, that gives reasoned reasons
For his reasons.
Technically speaking, how his words go down
Is of little consequence to those around
For they’re made palatable
By the very concavity of his idiom.
His inner thoughts,
And I am only privy to them
Through his rather large sun glasses
From beneath of which he probably glances
At the little folks in the hustle and bustle of their lives
Underneath the purview of his glasses,
His inner thoughts, Oh… never mind, never mind.
Here is no common man;
His mission, it turns out,
Transcends all women and men
And the little children
In whose eyes the streams run
And the birds dream of Spring
In the dead of wintertime.
For the record, his voice declares:
“Men and women of the East
Mark my words; your destinies
Rest in my hands
I am your baker, dough, salt and yeast.
A true vision I hold
You know not where I dream to take you
Nor do you need to know
I myself know not the nitty-gritty of
Where we’ll go;
I only know I’m not God Almighty
But God Almighty anointed me
And appointed me to deliver you
From the destinies
You’ve plotted against yourselves
With your own hands …
And that indelibly wrong ink
On your forefinger with which you thought
You’d rewrite the preamble of your script!
For the sake of these tender hands,
I hereby un-ink the ink
And forgive you your wrongdoing.”

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