In a fit of would be creativity one man renamed himself, Art;
then after  reflecting on the overall course of his life changed it to, Bad Art.
 
 
 

The fact that, dense
rhymes with, fence,
to the perceptive,
makes no sense.
Amidst civilization some men say they feel, cut-off-from-others,
while in sanitariums are those who say they feel, estranged-from-themselves;
only the certain man can hold both feelings simultaneously  --  for a moment  --
and then spit ‘em both out like day old light beer. (“Phoo-e!"  thinks he.
                     [Just so you’ll know: the city has no special awards for independent thinkers  --
                                                                                                                        they are their own prize.])
 
 

After considering one of the lingering descriptions of man, living-in-a-dream,
one man mused: “Then at least I want to live in a super dream.”
Alert traffic engineers come to realize that in, dimension-specific-areas,
all streets are two-way streets,
in that it makes no difference in which direction you dictate it right for traffic to flow, there is always extant, the wrong way –
thus the gentleman above was not untoward in his wish,
since all boulevards and things imaginary are not only what they are, but also:
lesser, greater, and opposite versions of themselves as well  --
ergo, that the certain man can never get-away --  and yet still does so

Note To The Nascent Rebel:
If you cannot describe even to yourself what you are doing  --   keep it up!
(Dictionaries & diagnostic guides are printed only for the sake of the herd.)

To be routinely sluggish is to be intellectually acceptable (in the city).

Justice: the more sophisticated synonym for, irony.

Fact: even the dead are alive.
Fact: so too, the reverse.

Morality: the starch in civilization’s nympho panties.

Those who do not recognize the voice of life are prone to hear the sounds of fairies, ghosties, gods & gremlins.
(Yes, the, little-people do exist  --  in little minds.)
 
 

Stepping out onto his mental balcony in the soft moon light,
one man’s frontal lobes spaketh into the quiet night:
“Cattle-o,  O!  Cattle-o  --
wherefore art thou, sweet Cattle-o?”
and his temporals raised up from the bushes and replied: “Moo-o-o-o!”
(Romantic Footnote: The certain man knows how to die for his own affection
without even mussing his hair.)

When pushing-comes-to-falling-on-daggers,
there is really only one way to be stupid  --   not make effort
(same as being ordinary and intellectually love starved).
 
 

One man says:
“I have reached a place in my life wherein I would now find only one thing frightening (and that is) if I discovered that serious-talking people are actually serious about
what they say.”
(The label, ordinary carries no qualitative weight  --   except with the ordinary).
 
 

Men who believe that any conflicts in the herd are about anything other than
power & domination rightly deserve the title, cow.
Amidst the stink, sweat and turmoil of humanity’s everyday mental battlefields,
a, sensitive man is a cow whose udders carry a sign: “Step On Me”
(and as so often seems the case, the certain man takes care of this job for himself
[forgetting other benefits, have you considered just the money a rebel saves?])
 
 

Making fun of other people is one way to keep from looking in the mirror
(the blanket approach is just be normal and keep your mouth open).
 
 

To be truly civilized & mentally stable as per city terms you need pretend that
the imaginary is quite commonly more important than the concrete:
that is Step One;
for most, Step Two never comes.
A man who can be intellectually offended is like a nymphomaniac rejected.
(As gradually becomes apparent: all that is mentally attractive to a rebel turns out to be
home spawned.)
 

If the dense quit dancing  --  they die;
thus in the city is all opinion and ever shifting guesswork.
 
 

After hearing some rebel thought expressed,
one dancer quickly backed away, saying:
“Hey --  ain’t nobody taking my machine apart!  --
                  --  not while I’m still in it, they’re not!”
 
 

There remains an unlisted frequency at which life broadcasts.
 
 

One who learns to use thought beyond his fellow man’s collective concerns
gets to redefine his whole life (in secret, of course.
[One reason  the ordinary don’t care much to hear about this kind of activity is that they
don’t want to have to throw their book away and start all over again  --  hey, who can blame ‘em?!])
 
 

If the mental rebel actually had a foe it would simply be the vague, rolling fog
that is the consciousness of humanity-the-collective.
Part of one man’s mind said: “Large crowds frighten me” and its reason?:
“’Cause they’re surely even dumber than I am!”
(The song says: “Everybody Needs Somebody” --  everybody but the mental hermit:
what he needs is a refreshing bath and a good slappin’ around.)
 
 

City Tip:
One way to be, special is to think that you are special
(this also works for being: precious, precocious, sensitive and pathetic
[for all its hardships, city life still ain’t a bad gig (if you’ve got the stomach for it)]).
 
 

One man took a seat –
stretched  --
then looked at life and wondered: “What’s on the menu?”  --  but he knew!
 
 

The root cause of all human problems is roots.
(The mental city of man is not built on sand --   no, no: imaginary sand.)
Great city minds all think alike: they all think:
“There is no other mind like mine.”
(the city gig can offer a really big bunch of unintentional laughs.)
 
 

Life expects one thing of man: that he imagine life expects more of him than he does –
that my boy, is being truly civilized.....and ordinary......and crippled
                                                               with no sign of physical injury.
 
 

The thinking, talking nervous system in man is like its own universe –
a universe looking to escape to another universe  --
but where is there for a universe to go?
 
 

The only reason now in the city that they are not performing mind surgery
in addition to brain, is that they can’t find it..........(and of course, won’t admit it!)
 
 

Every time one man would ponder the question of why had he struggled so hard
to become a thinker free of life’s commonly applied  restraints,
the same answer would always pop up: “Life made me do it.”
(In case you’re interested: there are almost as many laughs toward the end
as there are frustrations at the beginning.
[All of this contributes to the fact that pregnancy among the herd is confined to the belly.
Intellectually, the collective is everyone’s mother & father  --  but only the ordinary stay home.

From one granted, non standard view: everyone pays more for the thing than they expected to  --  sorry, that should have read: less
(if you were startled by the initial erroneous statement  --  then you’re still paying too much).
 
 

Physical space travel is about as close as ordinary men can get to actual thinking.
 
 

The Question Of The Day:
if the certain man could hijack life  --  would he?
 

One man came delightfully close to becoming a mere metaphor for himself.
(If you did it once  --  it’s no longer worth doing.)