cleaning up so well (jones_casey) wrote,
cleaning up so well


we cannot crown ourselves with everything,
nor can we coax the fates for us to understand.
sheeps go to heaven. goats go to hell.
in a phone booth. in some local bar and grill. rehearsing what i'll say, my coin returns.
how the heart approaches what it yearns.

the first line, divided, we see its subject treading on hoarfrost. the strong ice will come by and by. the fourth line, undivided, we see the dragon looking as if he were contaminated by the others. in the end he will obtain praise and a high charge.

"no!" cried alfred incredulously as he gazed in ecstasy at the telegram. "yes!" he shouted, excitedly, as he rose from his chair. "where's a time table?" he asked the white rose, and it made him no answer. the whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the glare.

moreover, all the great statesmen of every age and every country, including the most absolute despots, have regarded the popular imagination as the basis of their power, and they have never attempted to govern in opposition to it.

and when the crows saw him they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare to come any nearer. but the king crow said:

"it is only a dream.
there is no one to remind you that in your old age you were not ashamed to give this fatal news to the old man who had helped him once before, to see whether he would not have let bucky go to death for a dozen teapot revolutions if he could pounce down upon it and devour the whole tribe.

when the first arrow shot up into the sky the anxious watchers
thrust a hand quickly over their half-uttered "hinnu!" the second
and the third arrows flew upward but missed by a wide space the red
eagle soaring with lazy indifference over the little man with the
long bow. all his arrows he spent in his own creations."

but, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate. . .we cannot consecrate. . . we cannot hallow this ground. the brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. the world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did not believe in them, and
were thinking of nothing but bumpsterhausen's blue follicles;
having, as usual, set the cart before the horse, and taken the
effect for the cause.

so they were forced at last to a dingy dwelling, and she bade me enter
in. she dragged me with her, calling to me in a rack

whether i'm big or i'm bright
or if i'm wrong or i'm right
i'm always in high demand
not everyone will get me
and the ones who've never met me
will never understand

whether i'm good or bad
you can't always be sure
until you give me more time
time is a gift
what if you gave me more time?
you know if i only had more time
you could give me more time?

the fifth line, undivided, shows its subject straitened, as if bound to a clump of bushy mulberry trees.
Tags: automatic writing

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