Art which skill had wrought,
Whether natural; romantic:
Affirming volition or fatalism:
So long as it captures the truth
And is wrought with skill,
I call thee art.
Truth is antinomy.
It mends contradictions;
It plays with the war between light and shadow.

I am free
Because I understand
❦
All are slaves
Because they refuse to listen.

Those of the Beautiful Race---
The Ethiopian with thy beauty---
Aristotle tried to relegate you
To a slave for lack of Logos.
There is nothing inherent in you
That can steal this gift from you.
However, if the Cracker steals it---
And they do---then men of all races
Will be subject back under a yoke and bondage.
For understanding is the foundation of our freedom
And without it, there is only force.
Without it, there is only war.
And powerful men and women---
Black, white or brown---
Will steal from us, who are less fortunate---
Our voice. Understanding, wisdom
It is anyone's gift who seeks it.
Do not revive the sins of the past
By burning with fire the very Word
Which will set you free.

A charming conversation tattles about
The quiet book store---of bass and alto.
It's deep, sincere. Nothing they say interests me.
But, it is wholly interesting to them.
And that interests me, because it is good.
It is something I wish people had often.
Finding their class, their clique, through buzz words
Which aligns them to each other's world.
It is not gossip. It is not crass, nor base.
It is not about money or sex but 
Common interests. And the boredom sets in.
Not mine, but theirs---the chinwag disrupted
By their better angels, to enable work.
"This is the only good Fleetwood Mac song."
Now they are speaking about common interests;
Common enemies. Common hatred.
Kyle comes in, and they are bored. I am not.

I listen, I interpolate, I hear...
Illusions. Now they speak of stories...
Are they visions? Are they real? Illusions?
Like when the tv seems to know my thoughts?

Illusions interrupt my meditation
Which are equally interesting to me.

How many words do I see?
Master poets lose themselves in the din.
Fortune's wheel
Turn to formulaes 
Of money, markets
And robotic algorithms
Of buzzing hashtags.

It is not a fun game;
I do not enjoy it.
I do not enjoy trying to find out
What the masses want to hear
And telling it to them.
Truth is my unicorn.
And when none believe in it---
A thousand songs are sung
But noone truly listens.

The Skalds sing of the virtue of silence.
Of wit, and those who have it;
If you do not, to stay silent.
For speaking out of turn is foolish.
Yet, that silence---
It is all I can think about now.
To listen---
But it's hard because so few have aught to say.

There are a thousand poets in my eye---
I unravel the scroll.
Is it beautiful?
Or is it the song of the modern age?
All wishing to have their say---
Yet none saying.

It is only a conjunction falacy
If there are no necessities.
Therefore, Ted Entertainment,
You are wrong in your assumption
That conspiracy theories can be wished away
That easily.

There is corruption.
There are conspiracies.
And you making a video
Linking this innoculous fallacy
To a sufficient cause
Is laughable.

([a=>b]=>c)
<=>
([a^b]=>c)

This is a rule of replacement.

What is my voice among a thousand amateurs?
What is my voice to those whom I've offended?
Among the amateurs and social justice wariors
My voice is drowned out by the Siren's who rent
The hearts of the seamen to lusty show of song's breath;
To the coves they die, and are dashed to pieces
Upon the reefs. Amateur and offended left
No place for my songs to be harked or heeded.

What is my voice among the Siren's? All for souls
They sing, their asp like bodies and naked breasts
Upon the serpent's slough, and they sing of nothing old
But what is new and in their hearts, which sings of the West
The vacuous Gnosis of Mnemosyne, to which truth
Is found only in Cholesterol, isolated
In singular mind and sympathies uncouth.
What is my voice among the sirens? It is Wasted.

Dear,
Steve Austin

I respect your belief. The Golden Rule is the most important part of life. I saw a preacher struggle with what you said. He thought you said, "If I'm good, I'll go to heaven," and "If I'm bad, I'll go to hell." That's not what you said. You said, "I don't believe if I'm good I'll go to heaven, or if I'm bad I'll go to hell."

Then you said, "I'm not an atheist." You said, "I'm not an agnostic." You said, "I went to church." 

However, if you want to go to heaven, just believe on Jesus.

You won't go to hell if you never had sex before marriage. Or, if you never felt compelled to do good because of some evil in your past---that's called breaking the Sabbath. If you never murdered. If you never slept with another man's wife. If you never kidnapped. If you never struck your parent. If you never practiced witchcraft or divination. If you never worshipped another god beside the LORD. If you never killed a child. If you never had sodomous relations---with animals, children, or with other men.

If you never did any of these things, you won't go to hell. But, you also won't go to heaven. Just like you said. I don't believe hell exists, except for someone who broke a law that will make them guilty to go to hell. So, I agree with you on that front. But, there is paradise, and even with the wealth you've attained, you can still go if you just accept Jesus into your heart. 

I hath never seen the cartoon---
Yet, I hath heard it described.
The joke, thou reader,
Is thy reaction to it.

Upon the frailty of the lotus petal
He plucks it to make his herbal tea.
He then causes those who drink to forget.

It, a tea with herbal essence
Rot-grey in color, sickly;
It is color of all men's skin;
Sometimes darker, sometimes lighter,
Regardless of how long it is steeped.
It is poisoned by forgetfulness.
Wars, heroes, ancient causes
Are all forgotten by those
Who drink the lotus tea.

Where are the prophets;
Where are the peacemakers:
Where are those who listen?