On a porch with a friend,
discussing property ownership
and retirement, because what else
is left to discuss?
The argument for conformity
Nobody cares about transitional generations,
least of all themselves.
The sky is suddenly brightened by
surprise fireworks at night,
when quiet was expected,
The sudden illumination of everything
and then its retreat,
creates a jarring effect,
flash and boom.
In every house and every office
in every door we pass
thereís a person
who could have been an inquisitor, a baker, a war criminal, he of the baleful eye, or an accountant named Stu though he changed his name upon attaining adulthood because it didn't suit him), given the right circumstance.
How can one live with history when the same
sad glory of bone and flesh is behind every door. How, when the possibility that it's your turn to be the serial killer held up as horror itself is ever past and present?
Upon sharing this amateurish complaint with a friend,
he states, "but we arenít all doing those things anymore, we aren't inquisitors,
we arenít burning strong women as witches, no, no, weíre blogging
Who cares that we could be doing truly awful things, because we arenít.
We can strive for better, because weíre now better."
Maybe he's right as the firework reports. But how can we know what is better when weíre in the midst of it.
What will they think of us, we who leave this battered earth?
All we have are these bodies. The same as those who went before us.
And different stories. Stories weíre told are true.
And believe to be true.
The dream of property ownership.
Another firework, distant music.
We mustnít trouble ourselves.
what's it to you?