Punching the clock is a concept well past its expiration date.
Our souls must thrive; not be imprisoned or starved.
Feeding our consciousness best be our number one priority otherwise what’s the point of temporary insanity?
Lucy was never going to give Charlie Brown the satisfaction of kicking the football, but Charlie possessed a kind of hope which never bordered on naiveté or stubborn ignorance.
Our country teeters on planned obsolescence while continuing to throw the baby out with the lead bathwater.
We’ll never learn as 19 dead children become yet another footnote in our confrontational history where gun ownership trumps a child’s right to grow up.
Punching the clock is a slave mentality which rots us through and through as capitalism sits on our faces and takes a shit on the pursuit of happiness.
What Terry Provost has always represented to me is a juggernaut of clarity in a disingenuous society of widgets and Whac-A-Mole bean counters.
When he gets up on stage and roars his poetry you know words have consequences.
Our cartoon lives another fish wrapped obituary that no fishwife could ever render useful or tasty in the least little bit.
Our misanthropic lives as dense as Russian literature because we refuse to see the protagonist through the strip-mined trees.
All I want for Hanukah is a romance I can believe in and all I want for Terry and his family, the beauty of an enduring conversation of trust.
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