wonderful poem

Marvelous poem. A keeper.

MS

Fine work.
Much admired here.
Pathos without bathos.
Thank you for the brief pleasure in
this modern (post-post) world.

Beautiful - a reminder of why I read poetry.

The beginning of this poem makes me think of a child's perspective. As it progresses, adult worries and thoughts are thrown in. This makes me think of an adult who feels lost like a child.

We all have children inside of us; some of us are still children at heart. This is beautiful.

refreshing like summer rain

P.S.
I do feel happy when I see a white stork up in the sky :)

Summon bonum for resistant individuality is usually expressed in revanchism once the bubble or pustule is burst and sovereignty is violated by forces out beyond the house or horizon, regardless if such motivations are psychologically unconscious, and the existentialism of the typical Stepford wife often results in missed meals and dystopian dreaming with variations on infantilism politicized.

waddya think about new sincerity? --a ham-radio replies, half asleep in its own static: "Our wills and fates do so contrary run/That our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own." of course you probably shouldn't have asked, because ghosts are the only rigs still cruising this road at this hour. perhaps you are imagining a hipster in a trucker hat, gobbling No Doz to remain alertly ironical while viewing Douglas Gordon's 24 Hour Psycho? the radio answers: "Ghosts are always watching us watch ourselves, they are the vampires of Lake Narcissus, and will replace us when we drown".

but i just wanted to find my own language, he says, something powerful, a pez dispensing paradox, pre-post-pre rational (but the semiotician says, how can that mean anything? and the interrogator slaps him and snarls: "i ask the questions around here!) and maybe i just wanted everyday nightmares like sonnets, with elegant twists and turns, fencing with a pez dispenser (you are repeating yourself, she says, and in the everyday nightmare she gets slapped by her husband who--we later realize--is an actor from an antacid commercial, and when he slaps her, she lets out a little child's cry and it breaks everybody's heart).
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he says, you seem like an okay guy, garcia madero, i think you should join our group, the visceral realists.

(but we are the "real" visceral realists, somebody's website says.
and at the border of Pakistan the Hindu crowd is cheering something in Urdu that is probably obscene--)

garcia madero says, do you know the origins of the word, "sincere"? it is from Latin--Sincerus-- meaning, "One Growth or One Seed". it relates to Goddess of the Harvest, Ceres, who was also the patroness of laws and liberty, and whose daughter Proserpina was raped and abducted by the Hades.

that sounds familiar, somebody says.

garcia madero continues: the word "cereal" is also derived from Ceres, so it's something to think about when you are walking through a supermarket, looking at Toucan Sam and Captain Crunch and all of the rest. so it's good that you've been clipping coupons and saving them in your wallet, my friend-- it's a very sincere thing to do-- the goddess will probably approve, although I understand she usually expects the slaughter of a pig, or else one of those tremendous chariot races like in Ben-Hur, and also there's a ceremony in which they release a bunch of foxes onto the race track with burning torches tied to their tails.

somebody says, that reminds me of those British aristocrats. but without the torches, i suppose.

garcia madero agrees: yes, the British way of killing foxes seems slightly less cruel, or simply less imaginative. either way it's hard to stomach-- to inflict gratuitous pain on another being, for the single purpose of transforming it into a symbol.
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how much air to sing a song or to win or lose an argument or to fill a pair of floaties for a young child whom you simply love without any argument and whom you read to sleep every evening?