'Actually, America currently lives in a Golden Age by historical standards. People can buy candy bars for less than people used to pay for pieces of rags. The trouble, if there is one, is the habits and baggage of prior history, the particular dilemmas such as natural disasters that strike at various times periodically, and the inability to know our own strategy in the context of prior strategies, and the ones that follow. By this point however, as arrogant and blind as Americans supposedly are, there should be reason enough to know something about how to continue history. Consider that this is the form of how not to despair. Maybe the dark side is that I'm underpaid. Maybe that brightens your day, whether you are thinking that poor people have no potential, or that money is not well spent—it turns out, neither of those theories is true.'
(- -Nathan Coppedge, February 2018)
No imported candy or flowers grown in the richest soil fertilized with manure from a gold cow could ever compare to a sincere apology.
Why, what a candy deal of courtesy
This fawning greyhound then did proffer me!
(William Shakespeare (1564-1616), British dramatist, poet. Hotspur, in Henry IV, Part 1, act 1, sc. 3, l. 251-2.
Henry IV once needed the help of Hotspur to regain his rights; "candy deal" means sugary quantity.)
Everyday with you is like having my favorite piece of candy.
There is no amount of stress when you're around.
There isn't a flavor of you I don't like.
How can I not smile, shoveling a handful of you in my mouth
I, Twitter, stutteringly remember
in cyber chases, late night,
sitting at computer scrabbling
after old grievances such are
lovers, cheaters, jilts, and those
rare 'got-lucky' graces, unexpected
shudders and shoulders where I broke
open, finally laid, laid waste for future flatterers
and failures of heart.
Sniffing my fingers for remnant tents,
I recall, sickened, the candy at every fair,
hand fulls gorged, glutted, belly sore and
wanting more, drowned in the push-shove
of fevered bodies intent on the fast rides
where one loses stomach for the ordinary.
Dizzy, I grab my ankles, confess instead,
I've puked my guts from excess, spun sugar
and cartwheels, mechanical distractions
ghosting up Stillborn nights holding their
breath well past bedtime.
At a window counting railroad cars
a boy thief is stealing circus hours.
(from 'I, Twitter, Stutteringly Remember In Cyber Chases')