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don't straddle life's fence
soul-addled with reprehense:
dull and broken
yet still somehow "making sense,"
sold on the scripted past-tense.
Yes, in recent transience,
you've become "politic," "cautious" :
and more than just
"sometimes almost the fool,"
though once the keenest kid
in Sharpee school.
we work hard to
discard out apartment windows
vestigal tricks and tails
(along with control pretensions,)
but we rarely trash "humor"
or kitchen sinks...
fearing "out the window
with the window"
and other one-handed Zen slaps,
and sundry rebel riddles
we Dharma bums use to "re-slum"
any citizen of New Dada
becoming again brutally brazen...
attempting to lead free sapiens
with "realist" leashes,
"calming" our commerce with strait-jackets,
or otherwise Freudiannly "slipping"
and devolving from those mutations
away from tyrannical "logics"
which in past war-like days
of unintentional comi-tragedy
paraded us grave and over-brave
into depraved rat-buffet trenches
to intervene with machine guns
infuriated by bard-wired barbs
painfully picadored into John Wayne necks
bullging for sweet Lusitania devil-blasted
(pacifically packed with tommy-guns
from "neutral" Yankee factories,)
except that this "classified fact,"
since blocking the need to act,
was radio-montaged with tact and wit
to from whacked Abraham's Oval Shrine
swear in blood the opposite
Thus many thousands died
(their ears ringing and clinging to
these knowing repeated lies)
and millions still sympathize,
but today's braver fractions
better embrace rebel inaction
like exotic travel among beer-eased Bosh
discussing their new Robot Army
with still caged emotions...
slipping like canary songs
as Gautama's monks mallet sweet gongs
while alienage punks converge
in orange-shining throngs
from L.A. to Tokyo to Sao Paulo...
like bulb-drawn idealist moths
daring again to dance and convulse:
fairy-dust flying off our Dada wings
as we box by night light
of reaching aluminum aesthete arms