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You Who Scorn Your Fellows

ISSUE:  Autumn 1937

Resist the hub’s pull. On the tangent fly into ethereous space.
Or, since earth attracts you still, search Africa for spice.
If you dare not leave your country, you at least can go from town, past the lowlands, past the foothills.
From the heights look down.
Not in supercilious boots nor monocled by arrogance, but in pity for the drones who eat the comb of indigence.
Down the valley to the city slink the wastrels and the weak, glide the greedy and the gloomy, with the sinful and the sick.
In the mountains the disdainful eagle on the coping stone sharpens talons, whets his beak and screams a major tone.
Lord of air, peer of lightning, calmly taking what he needs, he soars to his sanctuary, superior to his deeds.

Try it, you who scorn your fellows.
Split their skulls . . . the brains are nice.
Then sit, profiled on the dollar
of your silver loneliness.


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