something
is tucked away. not iron. more a river. it sounds hypothetical; more
hypocritical. so uncomfortable to say it. such blasphemy to understand it. many
of us deliberate with silence. you would fight for you. you might rival for a
love one. other regions, other races, it depends on the topic. some atrocities
are a given. we operate off of instincts. it comes with training. living a lie. living in disguise. wondering.
doing burpees. fighting against privilege, style, self, and mirrors. to break
like pasta, to shatter like eggs, to splatter like sauce. no accommodations. no
more listening. complaints are met with dis-ease, misunderstanding, and
confusion. many years in dungeons, composing an image, we don’t speak of the
contracts; we dare not speak clearly.
the rich have more clearance; able to pronounce the atrocities; enabled
to preach it from the rooftops. he
went underground, studying his craft, and developed something incredible. something is tucked away. not iron. more
an ocean. walking on water—the cross—symbols
become existence; bibles churning, spinning in midair, the trauma of the
written letter! to disappear—to live
like ninja’s—to learn other cultures; much passion, discipline, without
emotion. to imagine training of
caliber—to feel sung as unsung, if more Tao and Zen.
