The Great Charade

It happens to be that we all perceive in a grand allegiance never brought into question as though the clocks have been frozen giving us all tock subtracted from tick and Change the poster child has a gun to its head in the hand of an empty headed juvenile a caricature with an imagined context an exfoliated ideology digging its own grave shouting all the patented paternal virtues pulling the dirt over its face with a shiny shovel compulsively polished to a mirror sheen reflecting no basis in fact whatsoever no penalty whatsoever for failed interpretation existence itself an abstraction of the mind and its endlessly wagging untrue tongue if anything an inconsistent flightless avian the suffocating confinement we call tradition trapped in a charade that cannot be spoken of by a silent and entirely unanticipated mule kick applied with a certain malevolent degree of purpose grinning like it was an intimate family joke bred enough mistrust to set a house on fire spending the rest of my life playing with matches wondering what the state of all states might be trying not to confuse supposition with detection with the unseen mystery rope pulled taut according to chronically uncertain eye witnesses but role playing is encouraged for this farce as is a tighter antipathy to deviance blurring the lines on the road to certainty with an unregulated quantity of rectitude being that knowledge is the past long and short unlike a world where the new is actually new