Saturday, June 4, 2016

Simone Weil 36

The ticking of a clock has no rhythm. It is defined by the pauses. A ring is not round, but square. We puncture time with our presence, then squat on a corner stool. One man leans over to tend the cuts above our eye, another to scream instructions in our ear. You want to talk to who brought you here, my son says, not to someone who doesn't know you. Intimacy is of violence mostly. He can't take the bus to Airsoft he's so well armed. Pores over pictures of pistols and automatic weapons (fake, of course) then puts on his camo and laces up his boots. Needs $15 to pay for the fantasy of killing his friends. I want to punch him in the face, Trump says of a protester. It's all part of the game, says the ballplayer who cold-cocked Jose Bautista. Only the man of violence can refuse to kill. A bell keeps tolling, but not for Ali. Attend to the blank canvas where his dancing feet once were.

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