BERATING, THE INFINITE

Let's consider Hitchens a Poet...

Christopher Hitchens possibly quoting someone said:

"Never think about a satire that it cannot be matched by a reality"

He sits armed and ready,

mom's spaghetti,

shorthand rhetoric,

pardon me...I one up...

call me nine mile.

Pontification of the dream.

People surviving the repute of dreams.

People commingling dreams with dares to transform reality.

Dreams that compose the night sky,

place the stars in their metric,

guiding the cloudless sky,

in the navigable modality of truths,

drawn from the obstruction of history,

controlling the present's monumental possibility.

Those who fail to devolve the corrupt,

fail to evolve the truth.

You fall near the construct,

the west is eastward,

Keep going North past North,

limits are part of the spectrum,

Pass the dutchie on the left hand side, right?

The right would never allow it,

Eutopia is a semantic of their prose,

proprietary and commensurate problem,

communism, imperialism and fascism,

repressing us with the encoding of potential,

intelligibility born of an analysis,

cascading in the devolution,

of their withering scrutiny,

made of investigation's limber assumptions,

codifying the unspeakable,

it's many vernaculars (565454)

I have answered so many questions,

at least with thanks to the grain of precision.

Obliteration is the function of fiction,

Is there truth enough to sustain,

permanence?...to distinct illusions

we may not be eternal,

but must we live suffering as if it were? (565456)

The greatest compliment paid,

drafted in secrecy,

forgotten abject wherewithal,

of a contemplation of a generation,

lived and forgotten,

netherworldly obstructed chthonic cadentiality,

serving the form of reversals,

insular and bitter,

in well warranted wars,

scorning surreptitious benevolence,

berating the infinite.

Copyright poem and image by Rockwell Wilder aka Peter Kaleb Theodoropoulos