Modo PoMo, Un Poco

The feeling of being observational and out-of-sync now becomes an almost blushingly fashionable sense of my life experience.

What brings this to the fore? The mulling over on not only the country's current mad policies, but on the mad policies' forced reassessment, like a dope-slapping followed by a cold water spritzer tossed into a moments-before-placid-dinner-party face, by our international friends of what we really may have been all along.

Now it doesn't take 'commie' adversaries to slather on 150 years worth of analytic to make the challenge. Everyone notices the drunk in the department store. All the kids avoid the barking dog. No one can but resent the sour man in a tuxedo who calls you 'you'.

So, the review my sweat-waking naps find themselves pulsing to is the review of my miscresting with the wrong wave, misevaluating as heartthrob a slavish flattery, mistaking as adoration the buckle of weakened knees and the pucker of resentful lips.

Am I the American Baby all the rest made true goo-goo eyes at? The feeling had pride to it. Strong, but clean. Tough, but good. Victorious, but kind. This last go-round has gone toward sobering me and the rest. Is there no 'force of good', no 'force of evil'? Am I myself, as it would seem now, both, contending through agencies for which I am responsible? How much of the 'forces of the universe' am I in their entirety?

If we begin to read our own footnotes, we may see where to read further. To a culmination or to even deeper notes.