You're Such an Idiom

As a child, long before, we’re told a definition, a formula for/Counting, equating, figuring things out.  Someplace, somewhere, square or round, meanings happened to traverse the intended ground, and from their copulation, a bond or union first breathes air, a phrase or string of words created then and there, at this point stares its first unintended glare.  What once meant who, an explanation to, now a drawing, without borders, without lines, can come to mean the exact thing too, dependent only upon which set of eyes are being seen through.  No longer can one be so steadfast in their gloating stance, pompous pride pushed to cloud.  Instead, here and now, for some time now, a formula so elementary as the simplest of mathematic cons, the old one plus one equals two can no longer breathe in such a single purposed strand of oxygenated air.  Now, one plus one most likely will still mean two, but a different two than from where we’d originally stood, a two that can mean one and one and one and one again, altered to the space the moment claims, skewed to define emotions, situations, classifications of this and that, shifting sides and spouting shades, birthing new strands of sometimes coy, sometimes novel, sometimes shy, sometimes brash, sometimes derogatory in many ever-merging, morphing, transposing flares.  And then it can be much more subtle two, where two plus one can be three minus two or simply one times one, it doesn’t matter if what occurs works in whichever manner the distortion had happed to succumb.

You’re such an Idiom, and you could be correct in spewing what you spray, above and beyond, night meets day and day is dark, whichever fancy moves your lark.

According to all accounts this is not new, but beauty is, after all, skin deep, so what kind of trouble may lurk beneath, above all, some will beg to differ, beg, borrow or steal, rob peter to pay Paul, pale in comparison or grab their gun.

If I beg the question, would you then begin to see daylight, or would you remain the dumb bunny?  The question may not be, duty bound, or one to give pause.  Then again, it may be dry as dust, where the earliest to bed is the earliest to rise, in a world that promotes the early bird as the catcher of worms.  Only a Dutch uncle would care to disagree in their stern advisories, stating that such fishing expeditions are sure to provide no fish to flash in the pan, leaving your flag down, giving fits and starts, leaving the mind with a heavy heart, all upset, pointing one to hide their face. 

This will not be all it’s cracked up to be, but than again no sooner than decision’s done, to make up one’s mind, will three plus three equal the sum of one and one, which as we all are told the answer to, well before we’ve lost our inquiring minds back at school.

There will be those with noses in the air, claiming they’ve the answers to the stars up above the air.  There will be nose bleeds from too many grindstones sniffed, out of joint and in a twist, to which never breathing another word, not the way a spring chicken smells the dust in the wind. 

Perhaps you’ll find this discussion dry, or even on the rocks.  Or you may choose to see these chimes blowing around, on the square or well above ground.  On the right track, or foot, we’ll walk as long as the essays take, to sackcloth and ashes now would not be fun, not be saber rattling as they were when we were small, living green in a wonderful world of salad days. 

Will this all stand the test of time?  Will it steal your thunder or make you go blind?  Can it step out of line yet keep things stewed in one’s own juices?

If the tower of strength treats you like dirt, plant a seed and find your worth.  Then one day somewhere down the line, you’ll find the villain of the piece; you’ll make it rain, you’ll sing divine, shining sideways until pigs fly.  You’ll squash the bug beneath one’s toes; unearth the demons that rustle clothes, snatching the vipers near one’s bosom, well before fangs meet skin.

Zoom in or zone out.  This exactly is what this is all about.  Pristine, Christine and a bottle of pills or a Johnny-on-the-spot in a star of bars, one of which shall turn to be, a Fair-weathered friend, a coconut hell bent for leather or a clock-cleaning door to close.  Perhaps they’ll turn out to be each of these and all of those.

Moral of the story:  When counting, don’t assume, just because one and one has always been two before, that this time number three or four won’t come marching out the pages of a book closed too soon before.