Fire and Ice
AKA: The Late Great United States of America.
This poem has been on my mind alot lately:
Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
– Robert Frost
Then there is this, my other favorite:
Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
pity this busy monster,manunkind
pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of littleness
— electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen til unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born — pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if — listen:there’s a hell
of a good universe next door;let’s go
-e.e. cummings
Great choices. Thank you.