![]() Someplace where the rhyme is always as good as the reason, anyplace where the cost of gin is precious enough to thin but solemn enough to pour on the sidewalk for the departed, anyplace where the schools are overcrowded and underfunded and black and brown enough to not really miss the Seven, who were underperforming on the standardized tests and had been diagnosed as ADD or BDD status anyway. Them lounging streetcornerwise in our consciousness under some flickered neon of mannish-boy dream. ![]() He had that sense, or inward prophecy, -which a young man had better never have been born than not to have, and a mature man had better die at once than utterly to relinquish,-that we are not doomed to creep on forever in the old bad way, but that, this very now, there are the harbingers abroad of a golden era, to be accomplished in his own lifetime."We Real Cool" is the poem so many of us know from grade school: the Seven (that sacred number of the seeker, the thinker, the mysterious) at the Golden Shovel (the shovel be golden but be ready to dig your grave). He could talk sagely about the world’s old age, but never actually believed what he said he was a young man still, and therefore looked upon the world-that graybearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without being venerable-as a tender stripling, capable of being improved into all that it ought to be, but scarcely yet had shown the remotest promise of becoming. “Man’s own youth is the world’s youth at least, he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth’s granite substance is something not yet hardened, and which he can mould into whatever shape he likes.
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