Then an alien view is not a tool for you.
But if you wonder at precession, and embrace and trust strange lessons,
Then the view is sure a tool you can't abuse.
You can end run the conundrum, or deny where *others* come from,
But to do it you will pay a phyricc price!
The alien view ain't pretty, and in fact is downright pithy,
It can disrespect your *values*. It ain't nice.
...Remembering the hay ride we once called apartheid,
Or our own institution of peculiar infusion, instituted here, United Stateside?
Forget that the tendrils of a vicious white Grindel
Works today, at high levels, with torpedos and hindsight...
...It's finding your values are false... that you may be a louse...
Your values – an abomination of our God?
You're 'twixt your indecision, and awash with self-derision.
You find it's you the road, abused, so grimly trod.
...And you're filled with sinking potholes, bereft of maintenance... still paying tolls.
Your asphalt worn to drops and drifting dirt.
Your shoulder is crumbly, your signs all worn and mumbly.
You got what you deserved; that's why you hurt?
We infect trusting kids with our prejudiced shit,
Though new minds are a promised fresh venue!
We have the new info, but it hurts, and offends so...
We order old ways from the tired old menu!
I won’t cast aspersion on a school to teach Sturgeon
He’s the reason I'm the way I am today.
The way that Ted wrote opened clouds with a stroke,
And the hate -- well, it just goes away.
You can read my old posts which explain (or almost...)
What it means to cop to "watchers" in the sky...
These watch some live it up... watch others drink from dank cups.
They're watching children starve to death, too weak to cry...
And what would I do, but act out a "Hey You"!
"It's the man who keeps you hungry and diseased"!
"It's a man's lust and gold who has stolen your soul"!
He's got your sandwich, attends your college, shorts your needs!
Beneath mendacious steeples *he* says I don't know his people.
While he rubs expensive cashmere 'neath his palm...
He's spoiled royal oil, insuring other's painful boils.
He'll call his agent, read the dailies, breath a psalm.
And what of this soldier, who saw a glad warrior
Put a gun to a private's head and pull the trigger.
A red headed major, in that country? A mad stranger --
Provoking execution... Was he swollen much bigger?
Hey! . . .wait a minute!
Wait a goddamn minute!
Just pull it up there short, Skippy, and prepare for a societal short-arm inspection. Something's not quite right with Father Culture...