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30954the prickly pear

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  • cribprdb
    Oct 31, 2004
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      "Here we go 'round the prickly pear"

      And so sweet Lou, you anglo-loined tweedy toothed Christian
      prophetess, shall we all gather at the river? Which river, the Jordan,
      or the Thames, or perhaps the poisonous Styx? - though I am not so
      certain the coin of your modern realm will suffice to pass you well
      across. Implicit in all things is the fact that not every fools word
      falls dead on the winds of time to the ground unheard ever again by
      human ear, but rather what is spoken and written in error goes on in
      ear and eye of the fool - a never ceasing birth of sayer and seer into
      foolishness. Indeed the only cure of it is truth, that great fortune
      of accidental letters the sound and sight of which most often pass
      unnoticed, and always elude the fool so fascinatingly engaged by and
      in his prideful fearsome fairy tales and the beloved human edifice
      rising inevitably of such slothful linguistic failure. This then is
      all the secret works of the spinners and spewers: that the power of
      words is not in the saying and writing, but roars out in the hearing
      and reading; and all such outwardly directed attempts at verbal
      intellectual conquest end up inwardly self-effecting and
      self-demoting, because the sound and sight of such mistake can never
      end for this kind of verbal perpetrator except through sweet chance of
      truth. Only truth can make the error into record and pass it from
      wasting life on to its death and uselfulness. Without the truth the
      error lives again and again and cannot be killed. The end of something
      has commenced, and the taste of the saying of it is bitter, but then
      no one would ever tear the damn thing down so it is built until it
      falls under its own weight. So sing joyfully in unison of those sweet
      chains, and labor heartily in the hewing and shaping of men, until the
      thing is done and falls down about your head. I believe, I believe, I
      believe, I believe in Faeries, oh Tink!

      I saw the dark little Dane just the other day, in bad stomach eating
      pages of Lindsay, mumbling Auden librettos out of tune. Fame arose of
      the convenience of political adversity for that cocky little fire
      chief. I wouldn't change a thing in his world, hell he earned it. He
      may have scared babies into hysterical laughter, but the truth is some
      babies just laugh out of a robust joy at being alive and loved, to
      think otherwise is perverse.

      I don't think you're fun, and I'm not interested in having fun. As it
      has always been with your ilk, when faced with challenging argument
      you resort to cryptic mysticism, slathering histrionic moralizing, and
      appeal to authority. Furthermore it is throughout your recorded
      history that you would kill me and my family if you could, or at the
      least look the other way while we died. It's not the blood of Jesus
      you drink, it's mine. I am the son of my dead and they lived and died
      were often killed for my days of life.

      The truth requires no moderation, and in this age there is already no
      moderation in hope.

      Puerto Rican History X
      Trinidad Cruz
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