The state of
conformity is an imitation of grace. If
wind comes from “uneven heating of the earth,” it doesn't conform
to this morning's rain, palms' slight movement more an ache than an
action. Nothing is more difficult than doing the same. It takes a
cordon to raise an ethical
village. They take the must
off of must, the hood out of should. There's
no fan above the stove, just the sweet vog of knowing right. Let
speech fall trippingly from your tongue, but make certain it doesn't
trip on words oozing like over-ripe guava. Such a slight shift from we-speak-for to we-speak-as, from your
hurt to our malaise. It's
liberation oligarchy, this imposition of standards on the rest of us,
our feet in the mud. In the story, a man who worked in a windowed basement
fell in love with two feet that walked at his eyes' level. He could
tell these
feet by the arc of bone on one
big toe. When he grew rich
and found the walker
of these feet, she proved
to be a prostitute. Oh good
reader, he married her!
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