Wednesday, June 24, 2020

Pathos, Logos, Or Ethos!


what social dreams so precious to believe by inflation. to have exploited fire or palmed flame where never were they so intense. it becomes inappropriate by islands such steep inability. it becomes ambition paired with fury by dark inadequacies. (so much our shortcomings while asked about comforts where exhaustion exposes something we can’t believe; such a quick seduction such radiant sin while afflicted by disbelief.) I placed you on high, but you are human, thus, disappointment is a part of this love: by perfection to a major degree while too much a part of anger; a firefly as it flits or a reminder of a fallen graph; unbelted by solace to ask for humanity or close enough to see a hoax. (the predicament or presupposition where eugenics was once an ingredient; or deeper frustration, a woman degraded by our dear leader; or too many decisions, too much vicodin, or too little by mannerisms.) so compelled to deal silently, or too coerced to wait patiently, our belief-center is whelmed by chaos.     while saturnine or sluggish or harpooned—to meditate for self, to mediate for brains, while politics seem as messy as the platypus.     I fret those implants those deplorable realities where deep reproach is at our souls; a conscience man is made into a monster where one says he is a mistake. a rich man is despicable but caters to different plateaus while something anti-human is treasured. such to ponder our reach. or such to regret our compass. where loving a person becomes political. (our social climate while science is etching deeply where most are siding with economic love; while a poet is sick, his throat is debated or his voice is scribbled across a lawn with paint. but a barrow of mistakes but ivy league or not where classism appears strengthened.) to wonder about ourselves to have lived by certain precepts, where most of them are now obsolete. (by a gnawing irritability as assessing one’s value where many of us are asserting our worth.) apples taste differently, or apricots must be semi-firm, or we tend to spread too much syrup. as losing our grasp. or re-sparked. or succumbing to not caring.    

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...