Friday, July 13, 2012

Suppose it were Friday lxiii: pitching from the apron

Away. What club do I use,
to carry this lie with just
enough backspin to hold the
green, without pulling up
short? How do I get to Car-
negie Hall, with just enough
practice? Thirty years from
now, how am I going to an-
swer the guy who is standing
here: Who's going to remind
me; who's going to say, I
ever knew?

Come, water.

For me, half the loveliness of
anarchy lies in how intimate its
challenges are: audacities never
inflicted by formality. And the
invigoration of formality lies in
how proficient its responses are:
mercies never extended by anarchy.
Some unforgettable ones traverse 
the apron between both lies. They
bring elegance, so to speak, to 
discretion, as much as the other 
way 'round.

Just sayin'.

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