Long time God was believed dead, though so
Far as I know, none ever produced the body.
This I know is neither evidence for prosecution
Nor defense, although when it comes to private
Motivations, one must draw one's own conclusions.
I note that philosophy's become as dead a science
As learning to be conversant in high Latin, or worse:
When it's spoken of at all, it's the butt of jokes, or
So trivialized as to be incapable of being taken at all
Seriously. The philosophy of service design. The
Philosophy of Donkey Kong legend Billy Mitchell.
Philosophy and The Matrix. For myself, I feel every
Day plunged anew through thin needles into the
Surging, chaotic anastomoses of all possible futures,
Minutes hence, eons, with eyes wide open in being
And time, in a land defined by hard, sun-fired adobe
Bricks that stack themselves up against imagination
Or novelty, that pluck out their own eyes lest they
See too clearly, that cut off their own ears lest they
Hear beyond the siren call of Wal-Marts, of Republicans,
Of Democrats, of salaries, of the promise of Mexican
Time-shares and long walks on the beach with
Exchangeable soul mates, of sweet nothings whispered
To personal Gods who exist only to sprinkle sugar and
Fairy dust on their dead weight bricky lives unto the
Imminent end of the world, amen.
20091110
Habeas Corpus Interruptus
Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
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About at the half-point of the piece, the flow gains momentum, the ride kicks in, the reader embarks on a trip into the terpid psyche of the speaker with his sentiments and resentiments. The first half is like an introduction, a preamble. The rest is action proper, the development of the story, the climax and the grand finale of the not so epic history called humanity or rather, the history that was but still is, eh? and perhaps, perhaps one day might just as well make for a first-rate reading. As it is now, it's more of a compulsory national boredom fest that makes you want to smash your brains out on the large, brooding brickwall standing right at your nose and feeling all very important, solid and eternal. Cutting their ears, hmm, an interesting Vincent allusion though I'm not sure if Vincent fits the type of men you describe. But whow, the whole half-stanza is a great, juicy, tasty, witty piece of writing, one of the finest and best seasoned I've ever tasted in your chaotic kitchen with Dasein pots and Sein pans and all sorts of existential utensils scattered in-between.
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