Poem #50

From the Annals of Starbucks on Sundays, or R.E.M’s, “Losing my Religion”:

“While the name and the person of Christopher Columbus were to be celebrated throughout the Americas, and his birthday would become a holiday, Amerigo Vespucci has been scarcely recognized and surely has not become a folk hero.”

from The Discoverers, by Daniel J. Boorstin (pg 244).

Exordiri: We flew too close to the sun, yet Tiresias heard.

I. First barista

In summary some summation of religion’s hypocrisies.

II. Second barista to the writer…

“Aren’t we all sinners?” Interpreted in the vosotros of you all and us?

III. (Socratic Laughs) And Thoughts…

First, finishing reading a text, titled, “The Book of Life” by Robert Collier, there is Kierkegard (converted priest-existentialist), then Max Stirner; in essence, life is an obstacle to those seeking the end in heaven, and the latter: instead of thinking to the back of the thing we should consider life itself. To a quote from James Joyce on the creation of “Dubliners”, “We are foolish, comic, motionless, corrupted yet we are worthy of sympathy too.” To a quote of Edna O’Brien: “A good story is like a comet; it comes from nowhere…” Parking the car, talking to my parents we discuss the tropes of Westerns. Men ride horses and shoot at one another like they were children playing cops and robbers, the viewer is subjected to temporal narratives on family: the woman is to be Beaver Cleaver’s mother, doing the chores of the 1950 house-mother, the man can shuck all his responsibility in a ten gallon fantasy, never leave him, protect your children; substitute a crate of salt. After finishing the caffeine, I head to my layer to seek solace of some keys and paper.

April 12, 2015

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