And now, a bit of silliness…
Conversation is an exchange of concepts.
Conversion is a change of concept.
Conversely, convergence
Is a merge of concepts,
Except the perception of the
Conception is deceptively dubious.
Would it be convenient to
Convene a convention to
Consider the context of the
Contention?
I dreamt Barriss Mills was Ogden Nash…
Oh, so round and hard to please
Rather like enormous peas
Big leathery living flaps
Curled about like sailors’ caps
Neither dry nor fully wet,
And green, so very green, and yet,
Despite the sheerness of their mass
Who knew inside was so much gas?
What parts of me lie buried in unstoned ground
Dreams and fears alike leached out
Into the indifferent clay?
What parts of what I am pleased to call
My own invention come down
Through the ancient crossfire of nature and nurture
To the ultimate epi-me,
Striding vainly along memory’s boulevards
Grasping at the heart of things?
Isn’t that, too, some determinate of blood and soil?
Of circumstance stenciled onto a genetic landscape,
Long fixed, long before I thought to uncover it?
Go back far enough, and we are all progeny
Of blind, pointless chemical replication,
Some accident of electromechanical impulse
Upon a sludge.
They say the smell of fear
Can never be purged from that patrol car
Fear like a raging boil
Exploding into the roiling pus
Of rage, of naked rage.
Michael Brown lay dead in the street
The red, red wine of youth
Flowing into the gutter.
Accused and convicted,
Executed for the crime of being
Young, brown, and foolish.
It’s an old story.
“The word fire,” says Sensei,
“does not burn your lips.”
But say, Sensei, that the word fire
Burns your heart, the heat rising
Through your neck, and, yes,
Singeing your tongue on the way out?
What if the word eagle
Makes you feel like soaring,
All the while tethered to your
Earth-born dreams, that seem only to rise
Slowly?
Or the word dying, though it seems a lie,
Still feels dark and wet, not exactly cold,
But too thick for that?
I think, Sensei, that even your
Ancient schemes cannot touch
These depths.
Your finger points only to a place
Where the moon might have been
exiles child 