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Anonymously it is not a decision, should not be a decision. not planned, not wanted; not studied for, or studied. when the words come, they come. from the beginning, now, until the end. a homeless in the gray world of the city. a radio in a car. a mind mindlessly. a mess, you think. fifteen drummers, five believers, the math of the lottery. i almost made it, almost drifted away. until the call, until this siren in the night. |
Additional Notes:
Shit. What the hell do I know, anyway? I do what I'm "told."
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2012-07-28 11:34:17
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Indeed. There is a likelihood that family adhesion is more akin to the Stockholm syndrome than merely imbedded bonds of judicious and injudicious experiences.
Mix in deistic preferences and personal ties; whether as caretaker to pet or dog to Ivan Pavlov, and we still have the resources and links that establish family, and in due course; society as well. Some may counter that theory due to the apparent incivility among the constituents, but even this site mirrors society more than one might want to imagine. Sure, participation is choice, but those expecting a higher graciousness because of the poet moniker, than is found in society and family, are missing the entire point of the exercise. Of course, I would never be found lacking in such regal associations.
No doubt the Jacobus Arminius considered choice and then eventuality, John Calvin eventuality without the choice, in the end it all logically works out the same; whether one knows the outcome or not. As the song says, Whatever will be, will be The future's not ours to see Que sera, sera
Of course, I have far more intestinal fortitude than all of that. I’m above it the fray…. Sort of in an eternal now observational apparatus.