Sunday, August 08, 2010

...One Of You...



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Your silence, as always, is bodeful and harsh!  Presume that I'm discomfited on this road that I must march. A point in graceless dissonance, though, John Ford is dissed — forgotten. His plight's ignored, dismissed, and damned — compassion's misbegotten.

...And it really could be one of you; you'd wish that you were missed. The measure I'm correct?  It's found to match how much you're pissed.

...Too, you miss the point forgetting John too easily — you do. Not as pretty as Whit Streiber, lived with Mom, so what's construed? He picked up homeless strays — could shed a tear when they had suffered... like Ford enduring sans sursease the hell that he must suffer!

What is it with Ford the "authorities" know? Did he play "dirty" politics? Does he have "dirty" toes?  When it's clear as a bell that the opposite's true?  Ford's record is perfect!  He's honest — true blue!

It's because he's Republican (très odoriferous!)? It's his guns? Or his friends? Or, perhaps too obstreperous

...Maybe unpretty — an "embarrassment" to some? You ignore him 'cause he's "nerdy," somewhat "addled" or "un-fun"? He wore "survivor" cammies ... had —and used— *decoder* rings? He fell at last to 'Keystone Kops' in the stupidest of stings? It's his tin-foil saucer beanie? It's an image thing, you think? Perhaps plagued with body odor, he must reek some stench, but stinks?

...Then it's you not thinking clearly! Oh, it's you won't have dissolved... ...the fabric of that tyranny from which you feel absolved!  Well, know you're not absolved or sheltered, and forget your piece of mind!  You're next to feel the boot-heel that John Ford's felt, you'll find.

He's one of us well hoisted on petards of dangerous questions! A casualty in the search for truth, when sought by Law's suggestion! He fought his battle, now lies wounded in a dungeon of his enemy — while we stand by, our eyes askance, ironic, his archenemy...

See, what's gravy for the gander —and it's John Ford's bird who's steamed— will be gravy for your goose, mon frere, and it's THEN I'll hear your scream!

…like outraged, insulted, and newly minted Castrati, whining about your human rights, or some such — goose's gravy for the gander? ...A little late then, eh?
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John Ford was an innocent — injuditiously perceived as a lunatic tilting at mere windmills.  He knew those windmills were dragons all the time.
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Suffolk County, restore John Ford!

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