We look for a certain pseudonym

Floating luminously on the vast wild wastes of the web

Stoking the fires of narcissistic self-importance

And then we stage our mimes on the mind’s center stage

All the time a biting irony keeps popping up through these several stage plays

The irony that takes away your breath

And the continued reasons for breath

How do I shut up this irony thing in the back-room somewhere

So it continues to apply make-up in the green room

So there is no “you ,me and this irony thing” on our happening stage

So it does not pop up in the middle of my own performances .

This woman tells us at the park gate about the Gita discourse at her house

She is playing her own mime

Her invitation to us to listen to the discourses was my own irony playing out

The irony where I disdain a certain mechanistic pursuit of truth

And think from a higher plane of existence from where the woman looked like playing out an inconsequential drama

All the while there is double think which says “higher ?’ and curls its lip in savage humor

Can I not look away and into the far horizon when this lip-curling is taking place

But then my eyes come back soon enough from the distant mountains and the blue space

To this very room where my mimes are being played out


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