Youth As Metaphor

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Vintage Words

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Young as a shoot from a bean planted in a paper cup only I can see or paint pale green. Young as some intellect unperfected, a coming up of ages. Wager on the horizon, you seem to have a way of speaking all your own to keep out the ears of the unwanted and the unwelcome.

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Young is beautiful, but transient. Gorgeous youth bound in nine, ten, eleven years. Ancients painted you on the walls of the pyramids, sang you in the halls of folks no one has yet discovered, lip-sinked the song of you as sixteen, seventeen. They died early then too.

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Youth has new skin, new cells wanting to be respected as a thing, not as a vague concept. Walking down halls claiming spaces no one acknowledges as yours. There they are, those displacements of air, those chapel mirrors where you become your own object of affection and praise. Young blood is in your limbs where loive is talking to us through you; only we do not know the child-speak of the hop generation because veneration is our creed. We have not yet found the reason to need link to the zone you inhabit. Be forever separate. Learn togetherness eventually.

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Young, lady and lad, you are so bad and glad to own the way of wearing your hair. For a hoot and a hot minute, you stride corridors like gladiators fresh from olden and idyllic centuries. I know you. I remember you. It has not changed, not really. You are us, but do not rebel. It has to be that way.

allets

10/14/06

 

 

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