Life In The City.
To be satisfied is to be dumb,
to be dumb is to be satisfied,
what could be fairer than that  --  (even if you’re too dumb to realize it).
 
 
 
 

What the thinking of the collective judges to be: overly-complex,
that of the certain man finds: barely-minimal.
 
 
 
 

On one world everybody is born with green marbles in their left pocket
whose ultimate effect is to make them acquire purple ones for their right pocket;
once adults, they begin debating which of the two marbles most influence their lives, with purple proponents suffering the strange malady of not being able to comprehend green’s radical role in purple’s existence.
Shit certainly seems to smell on-its-own --  but not without aromatic food.
Ordinary minds can only conceive of one way streets
while he-who-sees knows them all to be endless loops.
Small minds live in time and are constrained by its apparent dimensions;
the truth-of-how-things-are is immeasurable,
thus the certain man is the carpenter working without blueprints.
 
 
 
 

    A man’s neural radar,
    can miss many things,
    but not quite so easy,
    getting hormones off the screen.
Said the city patriot as he adjusted the knot for comfort:
“I regret that I have but one cortex to give to my native state,”
and the hangman corrected: “Oh no: we’re taking your liver.”
“The hell you say!”
Fidelity (even among the courtiers) extends only so far;
life does not step on its own dick even if it will yours.
“I don’t see how that last comment was called for.”
(Another faithful courtier speaks.)
An email just in: “Reading the Daily News seems often like a ping pong game  --
and my mind the ball.
If this is unusual, may I have the cost of my subscription returned?  Yours,” etc.
 
 
 
 

The Instructor opened class by announcing the day’s topic:
“Cosmology: Explained Crudely, Yet  --  Correctly.
Your brain: the sun;
your consciousness: Earth;
your thoughts: the moon,” and a boy in back asked:
    “What about the oceans?”
“Okay: man wets his pants.”
One of the trickier features of non aligned ideas is that
they seem to always lack the sequence expected by the ordinary mind.
   “How ‘bout tell it straight: they sound crazy to normal people.”
The unconventional pleasures the certain man gets from his independent thinking
is like a puppeteer whose hands are tickled by the new figures placed thereon.
 
 
 
 

Homeowner’s News.
We all live in our genes,
and some favor one room over another.
(The reason penthouses cost more than basement apartments
is that they are closer to the future.)
It’s hard to get a clear view of the horizon while part of a herd.
 
 
 
 

No one owns any idea,
which is why those who can’t come up with any on their own
so passionately protect the ones they’ve stolen.
Cultural Life As Military Maneuvers.
The above is another way by which life’s larger platoons (man’s institutions)
are arranged so that the separate units (individual men)
will unwitting and without prompting,
defend the company as a whole.
Sheep’s minds tell them: “The flock goes down  --  YOU go down.”
(Isn’t it sweet how seriously sheep will listen to their teeny little mind.)
 
 
 
 

THE Operational Distinction In A Pithy Helmet.
Ordinary men’s minds stare at the thoughts in them,
while the certain man looks at  his mind:
this slight sounding, but almost impossible to consistently execute difference
is what makes all the difference.
    (“Well, hit me where I ain’t looking and watch me love it.”)
 
 
 
 

Calamine Just In Time.
The individual can scratch where the collective can’t reach  --  hell, let’s do it right:
The individual can scratch places the collective isn't even aware exist.
 
 
 
 

One man’s latest conspiratorial theory:
“It is men who are super, publicly serious who control life in the city,
and unknown back-stagers who insouciantly control these super serious public men.”
He mulled this over for a bit, then thought: “If I’m really talking about
physiological processes in me and not the body politic  --  I may be on to something.”
Fact: Any time the rebel thinks beyond where his normal thought stopped  --
he is on to something.
 
 
 
 

Wherever he drove, one man carried along someone else in his trunk;
then after learning to recognize and utilize better conditioned highways,
he (there are two endings) put himself back there and locked the lid, or:
he brought the other guy up front with him and let the top down.