Vintage Words


Sometimes it is just better

to hide. Get in a closet, stay

there. Out here is a world of

cold and cruel words and deeds

designed to create misery.


Sensitivities are compromised,

to feel is sublimated by obedience

for hire. Selective refusal

to participate is optional; a

minum of engagement may be required.


Armor up, speak in short pharases

only, and be aware interminably that

you have ventured into the unclarity

of Babel where The quest for a

modicum of understanding remains



Like a kite that will not

fly, tail too long, dispossessed

of non-aerodynamic principles, 

flight is not possible. The

take off is easy, the landing

always a wing bending crash.

Kites do that.


Forefinger and thumb smooth out

the crumpled paper. The human

reflex is to try again. There

are no comptroller rules or

timeframes. Some kites fly.

Some go home and return

to the shelf.


Sometimes it is better to

hide. Keeping ones own counsel

is respite, a comfort in

the darkness of quiet. The hope,

of each hour, is to venture

out, speak softly and well

earning respect, opening a slither

of comprehension.


The result: nothing of practical

or personal value in return for

the energy expended. The world comes

back as a wall of nonsense; words

spilled recklessly inside ruthless

instruction. The intent: Become

regimented and well practiced,

a enformed vantage gleaned from

books or verbal-descended heirlooms

that say rudely, "Get in line

behind something or below someone."

Sometimes it is better to just take

your kite home and hide.







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