My tongue is only partially in my cheek
When I observe this parity:
That there are seven seals which must be opened
In order for the world to end
That there are seven words
That you can not say on television.
Carlins dead now.
There are fewer words now.
And there are people who tell me
That the seals,
One by one,
They are opening.
There are places that we do not go.
There are things that we will not say.
There are things that we know about.
That we try to push back in our minds.
And how desperately we need these things!
Like a pot left closed, forgotten,
In the back of the refridgerator.
A stew of unmentionables.
A place to put the things which don’t belong.
It’s darkness should not be underestimated.
It sits in the kitchen and in the mind
But it’s contents
What will happen when we can say what ever we think?
Where will we put the things which do not belong to us?
Where we will go when there is no away?
That silver pot with the black handles is pandora’s box.
First there will be the smell of fungus when we open the lid.
And then pestilence and plague.