That Close...

True, Revolutionist activity is, and has always been, the only philosophy with soul, the only conflict with compassion, and the only warfare that IS art.

And on a rainy Saturday, if I’m not mistaken, I heard this chap say, “There’s no doubt about it, I can be generous to a fault, but only if it’s been generous to me.”

The greater the ambiguity, the deeper, the more intense, the contrast.

No matter what City you’re in, if you hear a powerful, Spiritual Leader begin braying about the “Evil of whores, the dangers of sex, and the lustful downfall of Man being imminent,” put both hands over your head, and your other two over your private parts, and run for the hills, or the valleys, or the shores, but run-dammit-run, cause no one of either sex, or any sex, is safe, (save the priest’s personal pornographer).

A small, (although, real small) Inner-City-Epic:

He wrote his books,

He drew his crowds,

He asked for learned donations;

And from his head,

The flames did roar.

Fed on by mighty quotations.

The King Is Dead,

The King is Dead…Long Live The Footnotes.

After a serious-night-of-drinking, I once heard a would-be pundit say, “You know, I was THAT CLOSE…I was within four beers of actually knowing what I was talking about.”

J.