Patchwork

While on some worlds poets are want to muse about
“the heavens weeping for the suffering of the living creatures,”
if a more complex truth be known, and the cosmos
so anthropomorphized, they would more likely be enthralled
by the discovery of today’s local conflict and destruction
being verbal disguises for the joy and vigor of
the universal tomorrow.

 

Over in this one area there are two brothers both in the psychiatric trade, and with
a certain similarity in approach: When a patient appears to be running out of interest,
money or patience, the first doctor brother will counsel, “My dear Sir or Madame, my
advice to you is that you should ‘clean up your act.’” And under the same circumstances
the other brother is inclined to conclude, “And so, Mr. or Mrs. Patient, my suggestion is
that you go and ‘clean up your room.’” (Neither of these two practitioners are
particularly well known – much less liked – outside of my own imagination.)

 

Ordinary pictures
of ordinary Life
are a patchwork.

 

Another traveler I met on my many sojourns, told me that his visits to other
universes had taught him one thing in particular which was that none of the
gods anywhere seem to like being asked,
“When are you having a sale?”

 

The beige section of one guy’s brain declared,
“I am dazzled by my own brilliance,”
And the other area replied, “You’ve got weak eyes.”

J.

 

 

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