Even if one takes every reefer madness allegation of the
prohibitionists at face value, marijuana prohibition has done
far more harm to far more people than marijuana ever could.
– William F. Buckley Jr.
Sinclearly is seated
next to a Chicago Public School teacher – a casual acquaintance, nothing less: the lesson of the time after a Morgenbesser’s double-positive-infused spiel regarding the parental licenses taken in a film you’ve had no intention to see, much less ever hear about, when in the silence of the monologue’s aftermath you study the teacher pluck an unstaked Castelvetrano olive from a once-sipped-from martini and place the Sicilian into her mouth and suck-chew: her jaw fashions between the arts of sinuosity and tortuosity:
that’s sort of like how it’d be like to backtrackingly describe how by curtailing the imposition of sudden fear upon the minds of parents of teenagers, intuition positions forbiddance as the single most relevant display of how to savor free, savor free of public and free of school.
It really puzzles me to see marijuana connected with
narcotics . . . It’s a thousand times better than whiskey –
it’s an assistant – a friend.
Sinclearly as an occupant
of the space in a bus gazebo (the two poster ads now adorning its rotating ends: one regards GED training; one warns of DUI – each utilizes a color photograph of a staging), and being accompanied by a soul who is in need of sharing with you the Word of the Lord via a catchy broadsheet of 43lb paper with lustrous aqueous coating, but which to your color sensitive sight has rolled off a press that probably should’ve had its magenta switched out at least two jobs ago.
When you return to this mundane sphere from your visionary world,
you would seem to leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland winter –
to quit paradise for earth – heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, guest
of mine – taste the hashish!
Sinclearly in the scene:
an unmanned U-Haul parallel parks, its backing into its space the cause of splinter in several mature limbs of a tree islanded in sidewalk. Behind, a compact gas-guzzler’s plastic back bumper holds the sticker: Separate Church & Hate! The rental truck knocks the front end of the gas-guzzler silly – no alarm sounds, but its owner sees all from the far end of the block where she has just emerged from a value-conscious grocer. In the spasticity of her incensed march towards the inciter of this vision, as she short-strides through the shade that has crept onto this stage of a quaint neighborhood, it appears that out of the top of the swollen sustainable bag jostling at her rib cage three Muppets are flaying towards escape until one finally falls, rolls a tad away from her to the space of the curb reserved for the handicapped,
and there on the curb of a road with no traffic Kermit begins to belt out his big song. You join in with him at “And rainbows have nothing to hide”; but the owner of the gas-guzzler, now torn between confronting an unmanned vehicle or recapturing what she had in the grocer believed to be a butternut squash, stops mid-stride, looks to you and scorns, “I don’t know what your ass is singing for. The mafia wants you dead!” You would half expect a bill of currency to fly out of the leather purse fixed between her rib cage and her personal revolution against waste, but there’s no real handler here.