A man with two eyes/I’s cannot be your friend;
only a reality with more than two possibilities can so be;
the rebel won’t live where his temperament is welcome and he mentally fits in;
everyone feels pushed by hormones and pulled by neurons,
but only the sucker-punched majority acknowledge it;
if you will confess how you feel, or admit what you think
you are a routine babble machine  --  nothing of any special interest.
“Pull yourself together man!  --   Oh yes, no one really can,
but if you will shut up about it, it will not be so obvious  ---   yes,
that’s correct and that’s the point: it will not be so obvious to you!
What’s that you say:
"If we keep such things unsaid & bottled up inside, we will surely explode" --
--  we can only hope, huh?!”
Note: no real rebel ever becomes a priest, psychiatrist,  hamster tamer,
or low wire artist.
If you are not prepared to --   nay  --  frantic to supernovaize,
you are a weekend, paint gun rebel;
only dilettantes and debutantes seek cover under beds
when the exotic neural ordinances start a’poppin’  --
the tire iron resister seeks out where the action is,
and throws himself into the middle of it  --
and since there is none naturally and all of this is mere metaphorical mumbo tango,
he, by krupps, creates his own  --   in the only place a decisive battle can be fought,
in his own  --  what-cha-call-it?!........yeah  –  nervous system.

Sometimes your head hurts,
sometimes your stomach aches,
sometimes you feel sad,
sometimes you have disturbing thoughts,
and sometimes you just feel non specific ratty throughout;
sometimes it rains  --  sometimes it doesn’t;
ordinary men do not necessarily come in when it does,
they may stay out in it to more passionately bitch about it;
a rebel rushes to where his head hurts, his stomach aches,
his emotions and thoughts are disturbed, but he does not stay out in their rain;
he neither avoids such rainfall (which you can’t), nor complains about it  --
he won’t even comment on it, indeed,
you cannot be a true rebel and display any civilian response to these fluctuations.
“Look here my good man: when you’re cut  --  bleed & bandage;
but when you’re cut where you don’t bleed  --   keep quiet;
don’t be asking others where the blood is  --
your nervous system is seeking sympathy which, if it accepts same,
becomes your bloody wound.
When physically injured beyond his remedial ability, a rebel might solicit help  --
when the havoc cannot be seen or touched, a rebel retreats entirely into himself for the few seconds it takes to cause the vanishment of the kooky detriment.
Listen up old chum: let the rest of the world wring their dicks,
and moan in the living-cemetery long before they actually die,
in dramatized displays of pain for which no source can be found;
the rebel knows the cause:  being alive,
and to himself at least once muses:
‘How funny it is to be alive AND forced to THINK about it’  --
‘funny’ my friend, in the sense of it being:
so-interesting-as-to- give-me-something-to-look-into-
besides-a-toilet-bowl-or-supernatural-scripture."

There is nothing to be said in response to emotional, or mental pain
(well, other maybe than: Damn! or: Shit! [said to yourself and instantly forgotten]).
“Hey, you people do know that this bus we’re on could crash at any moment,
and kill us all, don’t you?!”
Well sure they do, but if you allow your neurons to yammer on about it and eventually get your hormones in a dither  --  and for a reason they do comprehend  --
you will crash over and over again without the relief of ever fully dying.
In open heads  --  in rebel camp  --  the new day is greeted every morning by cries of:
“Damn! --  shit!  --  hip hooray!” all said silently........(if at all)  --
saying nothing is always the supreme display of comprehension
for a man who understands what is going on –
“Hey, look Sarge  --  it’s raining!”   --   “It wasn’t until you mentioned it.”
Such is the never heard vocal life in rebel camp.

By birth, every man has two and more eyes/I’s, and thus (for the rebel’s gambol)
can be no friend to himself (a prisoner cannot lead a prisoner to freedom),
but unlike the rest of the penal population, the rebel’s other self is not his enemy  --
oh it wants to be  --  is intended to be, but he will not allow it,
through simply refusing to acknowledge it.

When you finally realize what you are really involved with in ThisSortOfActivity,
you recognize that all opposition to your aim is propped up in power by
your acknowledgement of it;
make note that your liver, or Napoleon is holding you back  --  and they are;
from the certain man’s totally personal perspective: all of his stupidity is sustained solely by his acting like he is even aware of its existence;
there is no Giant except when Jack says: “There’s that Giant,”
and the rebel’s multiple eyes/I’s can’t function and confuse
unless he admits to their ever lurking presence;
a civilian hero goes out defiantly defying physical death  --
the rebel, his natural born temperament.
“My good chap, I present to you the big kookaronga question once again:
if you pretended totally to not be stupid  --
even though you do not know fully what is going on  --
what would be the difference between you and a man who does?”
The first day of spring makes everyone nutty  --
the last day of Limbic Lent drives a rebel to dump his masquerade,
or as one outsider is given to say:
“The most important thing as the seasons roll ‘round is to be shifty-eyed/I’d”  --
and just as a good doctor, as long as there is some chance of your recovery,
does not speak of death,
neither does a rebel allow his thoughts to describe to him what they may call his, present predicament,
and it is only civilians who seek road signs on life’s highways  --
and find them in religions, social mores, political philosophies;
a rebel is driving too fast to need such,
and the more civilized and less hungry you are
the more time you have to be concerned about your, quality of life;
the more awake you are,
the more is the locus of your focus on the quality of your nervous system's rebound,
‘cause it is okay for hormones to talk about neurons --   but not the other way around,
or while an ordinary, elderly and un well man is encouraged by the comment:
“You should be dead by now anyway”  --
a rebel is not by his mind’s assurance that he should have been long ago
completely overwhelmed by his native denseness like everyone else,