A Different Kind of Poetry - Stream 0621
Elegant, peaceful, secluded…a frame of mind, beyond the cares of the everyday.
Calm fields in the distance. Recently harvested. Bread of life.
Blustery opinions swirl through corridors of power. Distant concerns were suppressed by birdsong. Plenty of heat for some, diplomatic fronts to contend with. Intrigue that ultimately means little or nothing, yet remains relentless - like the whirring of a machine’s motor.
“I started out by telling you…”
“If they do something bad to you, there has to be an original offer.”
Later that day, the environment of accusations seemed to further target a widening group of all the things that make life worth living. Beautifully imperfect inquiries nested in a level of senseless violence.
Newly revealed memos indicated a perspective of calculated suppression. Tactics of erosion continued to trouble missing monetary positions. Points of distribution where cloaked in a better setting for aggravated deception which earned a level of further subterfuge for all onboard, in what could only be defined as one wild ride.
A brazen ambush took officials by surprise. Sources reveal a state of confusion, a rampant shortfall. Declining comment, the caper refreshed certain memories best left forgotten.
“Nothing but a carefully crafted illusion, a twin-turbo power grab.”
“That is to be expected.”
“One day changed entire lives.”
“That is to be expected.”
Freedom to choose. The warnings expired. Few were touched as fuel for the fire evaporated. Normalcy resumed. Relief was palpable.
Yet, nothing could be ruled out.
There is no repudiation of hospitality in the archive of ideation. Long corridors, galleries of progressive thought, seem to stretch endlessly, no seeming end from one point to another. A cyclical sort of place in time and space. An apex of evolution where concept upon concept nestle cozily, as if in some sort of exotic club.
It is within this sanctuary the art of life is catalogued, held in a semblance of historical reverence.
“Who and what we are,” confides the curator.
Seemingly, it remains a concrete prerogative. A story must have a beginning – and an ending. Contentious factions tended to disagree. All is a variegated unfolding, there is no discernible beginning and certainly no ending clearly in sight. The continuum: no beginning, no end, but hard to grasp from the position of mortality. Difficult to wrap the mind around, granted. But worth the try.
“Why expend such effort?” queried the initiate.
“To experience the divine,” was the reply.
It is imperative to view the situation in a larger context. The real business proves shady upon further investigation. Critical developments were promptly disabused as scurrilous by specific mouthpieces, but “spin” was always part and parcel in the campaign of disinformation.
Leveraging the historical record for personal gain seems ambitious to some.
Deflecting inquiries were touted to be the best way to proceed.
“Ignorance is bliss,” the expert intoned.
Outrageous obscurity loomed, often the bane of true visionaries. Overwhelmed by mundanity, buried by the trite, smeared by the commonplace. A lack of accountability creates cynicism, a desolate wasteland where dreams are dashed, hung out to dry.
“The rebels are those that refuse to rollover, to throw in the towel,” the analyst revealed.
“Is it possible to eliminate them entirely?” the controllers asked.
“I am going to dream about that soup.”
A vast culture of criticism flourished. Generations were built upon discrediting those that dared to push limitations. Oblivious to developing realities, castigating the dream of better conditions – a utopian society of realization – the imbedded perpetrated the position of continuous complaint.
“Competition is a state of synthetic warfare. Cooperation is obsolete,” opined the spokesperson.
“Ludicrous,” spat the critic.
Rest not on your laurels.
A gratuitous sex scene to bolster sales.
"Underground Streams in Cranial Caves" - mixed media