I cry out to heaven, been here before. I know: These are days of comedownance, bass thumbs thrum away to celebrate the encirclement, shadows play on dissolving walls where licking flames loathe to go. I wonder how I can maintain my equipoise when all I thought I knew hits the vanishing point, and the new magno-electrical forces anoint the plug-in puppets and the new lords of white noise. I won’t get caught changing dark horses in midstream -- in Heraklitus’s everchanging river -- Ole Miss, the Styx, Lethe, or the Rubicon’s liver, and I’ve made peace, burned my bridges at all of them. Designated drivers of our collective fate, are driving drunk, and weaving, and it’s getting late.
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