JUDGEMENT FURNITURE

Four score and seven years
ago . . . an idea took root.

These rather mundane but highly charged words have echoed across the American mindscape . . .

Freedom's just another word for nothing else to do . . .

In the evolution of man's flight from the biocriticisms of nature, only a few governments in the history of the modern world as we know it has ever been founded upon the premise that all men are created equal, and they have each according to its own nature, proved that embracing the convenient lie is a stronger impulse than weathering the persistant struggle of the truth.

The lemon tree does not compare itself to the pine tree in terms of equality, and neither should humanity pine for such terms nor grow sour to its own promises. Equality is measured by the astonishing capacity for life, and is not quantitative. While the spinning planet and its natural resources appear finite and ruthless in its respective defenses, the human spirit throughout history has been shown to struggle in rising above these awkward limitations, despite a persistant weakness for oppression and folly.

Freedom of opportunity does not include molecular bias, suggesting a nod to the a priori, rather than to the revolutionary moment.

Revolution is the first resort of scoundrels and sly misanthropes, and the last resort of still honest chainthinkers who treasure today's fleeting moment rather than yesterday's sandbagged rubble or tomorrow's sloganeering turned soon against themselves.

Military and articulative might is a time-worn eye for eye approach to keeping the peace in a world of chaotic and delusional equations. Turning the other cheek is axiomatic to early blindness for the many, while bringing light to the few. One must pick one's poison, knowing you will never cheat infinity.

Envy is the cardinal regret in this knotted world of appropriation. Self-contentment is never attainable while still attached to how others may compare to one's own stability. After the Industrial Revolution brought on rapid development and nearly everyone's lives improved with relation to leisure time and creature comforts, so has our lust for competition and greed among our neighbors.

Work is nothing but an attempted escape from idleness. Numbers suggest many succeed and find happiness. The idle rarely stretch beyond the strains of envy. Those who do, find happiness. Is there room for both clienteles in a single worldview. Of course.

Many concern themselves with public image. While not the costliest of resonances, this public mirror of the soul cannot but reproduce a skewed version of the individual at war with himself. A man not at war with himself is either a brute or a flicker of transparency. No proverb can capture the entirety of a persona, and yet, no proverb has ever been proven completely false, despite the deflection artistry of the politically correct.

After all is said and done . . .
we will never cheat infinity.

There is but one approach in examining one's life, and that is under the microscope of universal slavery. . .

Freedom is not separate from responsibility . . .

Conflict is in the untrained or overstrained eye of the beholder still a hostage to wandering irresponsibility while freedom is self-evident, encouraging, and harmonious . . .

The primary mote of conflict is "Me first!" While the cruelest season of freedom is "You too!"

Obedience to one's thirst is not necessarily the quencher, if one's pail belongs to another, or has been shot full of holes by one's own conflicted handiwork . . .

The entire history of humanity is written in the soul of every newborn child. Unfortunately, man rushes in to burn those books and youth revokes itself. . .

Many appear who speak in the name of freedom and claim to possess the message which will unlock the shackles of the mind and free the flesh. These new jailers are bleeders of time and are merely seeking to herd you into their private cave for a short while. Beware of these roaring lions and strip searchers. They want something you can't give them if you value the freedom they are selling.

Commerce is not as evil as the lie that commerce is the only good.

One lad's rebellion is another lad's herd instinct. Neither lad is ever completely free from, nor completely included into any herd definition. This is self-evident. Why do the heathen rage so in suggesting otherwise?

The language of knowledge is alphabet dirt. It can neither oppress nor elevate without an accompanying conspiracy of oppressors and flatterers working an organizing grift. Evolution of language is a natural phenomenon as a byproduct of freedom. Codification of language is a welcomed conspiracy with commerce but its oppressive tact along the rules of exclusion is a ruthless agenda. This is not freedom but an unnatural stratafication of freedom.

The abolition of conflict is not as desirable as the identification and clarification of freedom in its most solid or acute states.

Preferring to accept without retaliation the premise that it is quite self-evident to the honest mind that the flesh does indeed inform the spirit as does the spirit inform the flesh far beyond the powerful intrigues of rote socialization, should we ask and thus expect to quantify this quality of physical nature? Is true androgeny and one unvaried race the sole solution to what ails the human species at this very critical time of its departure from a bloody past our ancestors and our peers have left us?

Is anyone truly prepared for the centrifugal forces of the 21st century as things gear forward leaving far behind this bloodcurdlin' past, or is our quandry just a long fillibuster aimed at delaying the inevitable yawn, making haze as Dylan now puts us, travelin' on a slow train with a long time to go yet before we ferry out of steam, blow ourselves extinct, or finally realize our best bet is to muster enough strength to simply say to ourselves what the commoners say, that we must keep on keeping on because none of us is gonna change soon enough to make that much a difference except as bit players on a rugged landscape made of mind and mischief, merriment, moxy, mules and mediocrity.

But such is time and perfect timing, off time, under time, in time, time and time again, sloppy time, never time, Miller time, tea time too. Neat time, time in a bottle, my time, the time of my life, time to shape up, time to get a job, all the way to the point where it's time to get married the fifth time. Shallow time. Shag time. Sane time. In the time it took to drive a bus off the cliff on a Seventies cop show, that's show time. Time to go to the bathroom. Time this. Time that. Time warp. Time tunnel. Time is where the heart is. Time enough to think of a good response this time. Time to grow up. Time to eat and run. Time to suck him off. Time to beg the difference. Time to cut the mustard. Time to pick out a receiver downfield. All the time in the world. Time to wipe my ass. Timex time. Time to cash a cheque. Time to win the battle but lose the war on drugs. Time it took four six women to satisfy each other in a dark room nearby. Time to write a novel. Time to brush her hair the same way her sister used to brush her own. Time to draw a conclusion at the bottom of the class. Time to mark a certain number of correct answers to the questions with a number two pencil. Time to give up a lost cause. Time to shut down the chicken farms along that river. Time to read the classics in their original language. Time to make lunch bags before the children race off to school. The time it takes to build a universe only to have it collapse in your face is nothing like the time I helped Aunt Mardis rip through a chocolate cake in the olden days of French ascendency. It takes time to learn to ride a bicycle. Time to reap what one sows. Or maybe not. Maybe that time is instantaneous time, time accurately remembered. Time to sing before she swallows. Time to harvest a generation. Time to swallow before you hang ten. Time to look before you cross. By the time it took to dig the Erie Canal times had changed. It's not about time, it's about attitude. By the time I get to Phoenix many husbands won't have time to take out the garbage. The driver swore to the witness that he didn't have time to stop. Time takes a holiday but time never vacates the premises. Time laughs at odd moments but time never bargains with leftover sandwiches. Time is that which doesn't kill you. Time kills that child inside only to seemingly reappear later. Time is a long, cool woman in a black dress. Time is kinky. Time paints by numbers. Time is a disease of the pancreas. Time is a heart-shaped tattoo on Wendy's breasts in the window in Times Square. Pi is a timeless equation. Time understands all wounds. Time wounds all heels. Time is an asset. Time is a pain in the ass. Time is only as good as your next biological movement. Time is the needle in the haystack. Time is secondary but don't tell her that. Nothing like a good time in the sack to make time fly. Time has no fear of flying, but Erica and Henry both knew what having a good time was about, and it was not about time, but the enjoyment of time. Grown-up time. There is no such thing as time travel today, but recordings keep time in ways none of us truly understand past its fetish draw, but time was when a fine time was had by all, double time, life plus time. Time the unfortunate child born without legs who beats a faster smile than you do. Observe that same child pursue the purses some fancy to trick time into measuring time with old technologies in a world that presumes time can't reverse itself while it can so readily repeat itself dipped in statistics. Time is a two-way mirror. Time is a dirty joke flooding the muddy Missisippi. Time is nothing but what you in coveralls or somebody else makes it, but it's time you don't try to tell me about how much time it would take to make the timeless world safe for plastic people most suffering a bad sense of timing. Of course, there's never enough time to transcend one's station, especially when mobile. Time is far too formidable a friend on feverish afternoons to let stand in the cold rain. Without time on my side I perish with the daffodils. Time is a time-honored sport everyone must play in order to graduate. Time forgives. Breaking rules for time is not always bad timing, or timing it just right. Time scars. Scabs grab the moment to make time while others bargain, losing time to others, until another time comes. Time is a stiff upper lip in a compromising position. Time defers to gravity, but for one writer, time is nothing but a madcap schemer bought and sold on the installment plan, money paid back over time, but then two-timing Old Doc Celine didn't live in San Francisco during the beat era among hipsters who liked to mix up time. Time is a nightmare to Klaw's girls who prefer time raw and risky than their less time-tortured sisters. Time dresses up for special guests. Time is the major importer, exporter of stolen goods across state lines in situations where time is barely legal. That's time standing in the shadows, losing her shirt to timeless romance. Time is nobody's business but the rates are skyrocketing. Time is colorless, odorless, tasteless. Time left is time right on time. Time left to itself is useless. Time blows tall buildings to the ground. Time grounds water tables and small asterisks into dust bowls older than TIME ITSELF because time is the wind in the sails of marginality itself.