Linguistics are doomed, and punctuation is moot;
words are emergency, urgency,
Taking a breath before a sentence
doesn't emphasize anything;
it's just a waste of time.
The pitting appeal of dealing with others
is for sparring,
not for relief.
The eponymous odds against each of us
has become the very iteration
of our belief.
No one stops until something pops,
and left gaping,
all are surprised
that the very thing they cried out for
was exactly what was delivered
to their lives.
It's always great to make a choice;
only by choice do we further,
learn to discern.
And as opportunities pile up to simply choose again,
it too is moot
if you don't accept your turn.
Nothing's ever right by someone else being wrong,
only a failure of balance.
Only two can agree, and make the leap,
to include the third element:
that of allowance.
Interdependence is the key to independence,
as each one cares for self,
inside a plenty.
For we all have a point, observation and stance;
individuality is only realized
by our placement among a many.
We none are any good without the benefit of food,
and those who farm
tend lands that feed all.
They are fewer than urbans, but the plenty of sustenance,
as each hand matters,
no matter large or small.
They might claim more space than urbanites do,
but each hand multiplies,
so each finger's fruit is not forgotten.
But as more trucks and trains deliver that food
those who produce it
can have harvests left rotten.
The speed of local plenty is available,
fresh, and in-season,
as each Season abounds.
But that can all be left fallow in an instant
if a grocer reneges,
to pay a penny less a pound.
Is it class or crass to serve delicacies out of season,
and only available to a few?
Does lofty isolation include any care
of how it got there,
or how much fossil fuel was used?
Picked green to travel, and gassed along the way,
mingled with the diesel fumes
that slipstream inside,
tender foods must endure this abuse
if they are to make the trip
along their truck and rail rides.
Each leaf we pluck bets on the luck
and the assumption of what feeds us,
just as futures are bet on technology's growth;
but you can't grow it,
and you can't eat it.
The sustenance of our lives always flows exponentially;
the more we learn,
the more we have tools.
Knowledge is power, but how it is wielded
is the earmark of progress,
or of fools.
A foothold is merely a footprint, on the ground;
roots only join sky in reflections,
so we can see
that only the commingling of both
cause Seasons' rise, and fall;
as above, so too, beneath.
Graphic: Puck, 1897
Post-Election Suspect of Intellect,
the same as it ever was, Life;
it's not ours. We're only entrusted with It.