Someone trying to sound astute saying: we live in our time.
Thanks for nothing Hemingway. You really did it this time.
Dare I say: I am glad you shot yourself somewhere west.
Maybe I didn’t mean that. I assume it was a hard knock life.
Being hated in your homeland. Being shot at abroad.
A crippled boy selling butterflies. He thinks he is a beautiful woman.
Blind people are people too. Just one sense shy, a meager misdemeanor.
You must be my age, in my time. We can call it: generational tunnel vision.
An egocentric self assessment based upon entitlement to popular culture.
Look at him now, all grown up, all able to see things straight. So he thinks.
This is the truth of the matter: you don’t have to be superman to see skulls.
They are disguised by flesh. And on special occasions, top hats or a headdress.
It’s a bloody mess. This being the in-between time, if there is such a thing.
I propose sandwiches at noon. Maybe lunch will cure a sour conversation.
Everything all about the present; wrapped up and never in front of you–