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“Let’s do the deed!”

Let me sum it up for you—here’s how we stand, in Indostan:
When you come at me, when you stop me in my tracks, when you can’t hold the bowel movement of what you think versus what I in my perceived hunting and gathering “don’t know”, your “truth”, does not by my likes, deserve the title, nor consideration of it. It does not deserve a silver, a bronze, or Miss Congeniality. It does not deserve the patience God gave the victim of a telemarketer. Because I as King Duncan, would in a better world, call all of you true friend, with a smile and kind word as I pass. I say, “friend”, though each of us is a king and kings have not friends, but those they think well on and those who are threats. Your “truth” as a comparing of johnsons is for some, a Macbeth. It shows a false face. It conspires, shadow, and it does so, for you would have Power. Which is the birth name, for your “truth”: Power. A crown grabbed wrongly and with no regard, because once upon a need, you were “told”. By whomever. But, impartation is seldom good, when it then has us waiting on a Lotto where our divine numbers never fall just so. So, we argue. And we hate. And we want each other dead. And we say we don’t. And we’re liars, yet we cannot be humble nor be at rest, and like Indy Jones, we must have the prize (“I can almost...reach it, Dad...!”).
Your power is a wall. You’re hiding. You’re a sniper, screaming zealot.
Your power is a snake. Someone hurt you. You’re dealing three-card Monte, the rest of your days, trying to cauterize with battery acid.
Your power is a spear. That’s a gimme. I am the enemy; I am before you. You must drive me from the field.
Your power is a tree. You bet it is. Spit on me all you like, but you’ll find that tree, in the Book of Genesis. Really near the front.
Your power is a fan. The pre-prefab kind. Steel. Loud. Retaining dust. Occasionally, cutting off a finger.
Your power is a rope. It is a noose. We each of us, are Ogden’s Hangman. But, just as you say I have sinned, I too, see your mark. Nowadays, it is the mark of the Chick tract sinner. And, no—you’re Not a good person. If you were, you’d stay out of my shit.
You have every right I have, nonfriend. Every privilege, every title, every worth. What I’ve said from the beginning in these chaps is true, so don’t feel betrayed or confused. I celebrate your Truth in theory and by commission, and I charge you as I’ve said before, to run right at Others with it. Me? I don’t wanta know about it. And would to God, but, I’m not unique. Death Commandos on online boards aren’t kidding...and, you’ve no idea how well or not, you play the “footprint” game. Do ya? No idea, until the secret’s out but not the damned spot. I’ve also written that discernment is key. Choose you with care what hill you would die on.
Finally, if you meet the Buddha on the road, don’t kill him, shine him on...or, preferably, don’t even see him when you see him. Selfabsorption requires no refilling through conquest. I was feeling entitled, state of the art, long before They bound it in bestseller guilt. I’m not into comparing sneers, leers or jeers, like we’re 12 years old, trading football cards. As for abject Reality reinventing Itself with you as freckled newsboy, oh, hey, wow, give me more of that!
Nonfriend, I, just like you, know everything I need to know. Unlike you, I’ll look others in the eye and say that with a whole heart. Statement of soul. With confidence. Without blemish. Unafraid. Already arrived. King Duncan, in dark of his room. The Buddha, there, on the road. One who does not, unlike yourself, vain Thane, mistakenly bring a knife to a gunfight.

—CEE, 5/9/13

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