It seems haphazard—so
much so—disorder will lose its order. The lyricist in song—days before it gets noticeable—a
fledgling became a star. I don’t understand such lateness. To assume truths,
and run with essence. The same would be despite the infraction. Either earned,
or given gratuitously. The latter is excessive; thus, too much gratuity. One would
inquire about ethnicity—those boundaries—those sensibilities. Would poetry be
received differently? Would nemesias dance? I was with spirit those days in
armor—compelled by interior to chase, to sing, to place self in uncertainty. I met a person, radiating spirit-joy, aging
close to 50, it was a pleasure to speak, chat, laugh in nature. It seems haphazard. Selling chaos. Turning
some second into a man’s death: Malcolm X.
To wonder about procedures—with how they vary—being pursued under some
defacto, some foreign umbrella. After
a time, seeing many ingredients, a soul debates inside—trying to ignore the
excellence of the persistence.
