BOOK TV

Madison's nightmare

Mussolini's rights

make our entitlements

civilized delights

                   D. H. Kline

Suppose instead of Kafka's bug a substantial number of people awoke as meteorites. Obviously the world would be a different place. But would it matter? And that's even before we get to the existential nut: How?

So much for fiction!

There are people who amble the sidewalk outside our front door and who, in all probability, do not entertain this particular cosmic show. It's evident from how they dress. I see a man wearing a hat with its rear brim sloping down, completely covering his neck. Ultraviolet rays will not penetrate. Yesterday there was a woman, lots of energy, maximizing her exercise with reverse salutes, Hiel Sidewalk!

So much for reality!

This world is trending to despotism. I am entitled, so far, to these opinions. They are probably harmless since they won't affect the price of gas. I could hawk eclipses or lightning rods or quantum encryption software inscribed on a grain of sand. Such products are marginally safe from law suits.

No one can say that meteorites will not spark a level of interest. They are neither fish nor fowl, perhaps akin to fireflies. Remember getting some to fly into a jar? Maybe not. Light pollution is blinding the night sky. Cities are heat sinks. No child left behind to wonder.

Well, too bad. It needs piercing, but not just ear lobes or lips or noses. Remember – everyone is entitled to ignore these, or any other opinions. If followed as closely as politicocircus reviews, everyone can settle in for a good game of Monopoly. And I am entitled to mention these under the doctrine of Fair Use.

There is telepathy. It ambles by, unbeknownst, along our trending sidewalk. And by now, although this includes no graphs, statistics or “Source” reports, it seems to spill over into disparate realms that ignore space. Isn't that one of the attributes? And does it really matter whether it's fireflies or Mr. K's bug? Some form of real fictionality is at work here. Isn't telepathy one of those acts banned from the cosmic show, as defined by those who set the price of gas?

Maestro

A little traveling music

Please

The freedom train chugs off to antiquity, we hear its whistle dwindling down twilight's last hurrah. Darkness glimmers.

There were ghosts then for sure that chased sparks into a jar, resting quietly now, simmering in their discontent. I am entitled

as are you. . .

So far.