Tuesday, 30 December 2014

現代 Haiku December 2014

by Rory A.A Hinton

English Patience

December 2014

December 01, 2014
Hip knot
Tick talk.
Black coffee

December 02, 2014
Always am
Burr cutting.
Love alone

December 03, 2014
Good buy
Degree student.
One thousand

December 04, 2014
Mental break
Down town.
Trust me

December 05, 2014
Hard good
Bye letter.
Last draft

December 06, 2014
Cause we
Have ended.
As lovers

December 07, 2014
Family deal
Break her.
Not now

December 08, 2014
Even she
Leaves me.
Odd man

December 09, 2014
Another day
Time passing.
Shifting ground

December 10, 2014
Absent love
Protects you.
Fond heart

December 11, 2014
Daily death
Day deathly.
Fascist history

December 12, 2014
Away two
Much drama.
Leave lashes

December 13, 2014
Lucky number
Thirteen days.
Relative calm

December 14, 2014
Blocked grate
Full force.
Fading away

December 15, 2014
Last check
Mark Rothko.
Sixty six

December 16, 2014
Paper shred
Her reports.
Tax breaks

December 17, 2014
Lost patience
Bruised man.
World breaks

December 18, 2014
Bay street
Bus terminal.
Home again

December 19, 2014
Growing family
Members home.
A gain

December 20, 2014
All together
Last year.
In pain

December 21, 2014
Two months
Pass due.
Gucci guy

December 22, 2014
Eu te
Amo vida.
Amigo secreto

December 23, 2014
Bored barbie
Doll typing.
Know idea

December 24, 2014
Eye thank
You see.
Mont blanc

December 25, 2014
Loving modestly
Abnormal you.
All ways

December 26, 2014
Rory alan
Turing run.
Old cure

December 27, 2014
Living high
Fidelity vow.
Many wires

December 28, 2014
Sunday inside
Mein village.
Van guard

December 29, 2014
Stars turned
Out artist.
Hit tune

December 30, 2014
Mightier pen
Ultimate way.
Rainy day

December 31, 2014
Beating heart
Organ fire.
English patience

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

At My Desk

By Rory A.A. Hinton

At My Desk

"It is not the position, but the disposition." (Susan Sontag) 

... at my desk, that day
time waited for me.
Almost gave up

looking ignitively
explosive blond shell.
Hell's polis beneath us

united by a natural force
fully and completely.
Filled to overflowing

fountain head
strong power suits.
Ad hominem love

her capitalist pays
attention aroused.
Atrocious fire place

mark your flame:
I am fond of you. 
Keeping abreast

exposed willingly
abled and enabled.
Come hither look

maybe two touch
but not too much.
Gown falls down

words made flesh
moves mindfully.
I love you

Gucci Girl heels
dig deep forever.
You bravely spoke

hesitantly honest
truth long concealed.
Unhappily married

spouse bites off more
than he could chew.
Brought nearer to you

evoke me selfishly
virtuous affirmation.
Thanking Galt's God

damn your white hot
orchid gushes open.
Sex without love

lost yet found
vowing fidelity.
St. Valentine's Day

massacred by the alien
light slowly going dim.
Three days silent

suffering breathlessly
breathing mechanically.
The pain of not knowing

my calls won't be answered
prayers proved decisive.
Never letting you go

home made traditions
decorate holiday trees.
Black-eyed peas please

my one thousand year old heart
beating one thousand miles away.
Devotion from a physical distance

collapsing summer solstice
falling into this cruel winter.
My disposition still still ...

Ayn Rand. The Fountainhead. Signet. 1952.
Susan Sontag. Against Interpretation And Other Essays. Picador. 2001.

Wednesday, 24 September 2014


By Rory A.A. Hinton

Red White And The Blues

Texas stand
Off again.
Dodge dodge

Saturday, 2 August 2014

The Ghost Of Bobby Orr

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Bobby Orr

You said you didn't give a fuck about hockey
And I never saw someone say that before
You held my hand and we walked home the long way
You were loosenin' my grip on Bobby Orr
(Gordon Downie - "Fireworks") 

Brown brick Sunday school
Room four pewed peoples:
Witness my defensive grip
Behold Bobby Gordon Orr.

Post humorous sunny morning
Over spoken magical spells:
Charming prince walked airy
Onward toward blond ambition.

Back seat secret shared
Window wind blown fast:
Food for playful thought
Experimental bruin flies by.

The parking lot saint
Louis blues boy wonder:
Full circle covered over
Time ends unnatural ties.

Andrew Podnieks. The Goal: Bobby Orr And The Most Important Goal In NHL Stanley Cup History. Triumph Books. 2003.
The Tragically Hip. Phantom Power. Universal Music Canada. 1998

Sunday, 20 July 2014

The Absolution Of JLB

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Frame 371 - The Zapruder Film 

"Hauling ass to save her ass." (Lenny Bruce on Frame 371)

Irish whispered
Equestrian cork.
Maternal loyalty

Black wall
Street Jack.
Father figured

Daring child
Hood devil.
Parisian dancer

Interior white
House design.
Ladies first

Birthday boy
President Baker.
Heaven's fury

Pink Coco
Chanel hue.
Jack's view

JLB threw
LBJ through.
In flight

Bitch Maria
Callous queen.
Hell's scorn

Never briefly
Shining again.
American royalty

Jacqueline Lee
Bouvier Kennedy.
Onassis' Aristotle

Jacqueline Lee Bouvier: July 28, 1929 - May 19, 1994.

Abraham Zapruder. The Zapruder Film. November 22, 1963.
Caroline Kennedy. The Best Loved Poems Of Jacqueline Kennedy-Onassis. Hyperion. 2001.
David M. Skover. Ronald K.L. Collins. The Trials Of Lenny Bruce: The Rise And Fall Of An American Icon. Source books MediaFusion. 2002.
Jacqueline Kennedy. Historic Conversations On Life With John F. Kennedy. Hyperion. 2011.
Vincent Bugliosi. Four Days In November. Norton. 2007.

Tuesday, 15 July 2014


By Rory A.A. Hinton

"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

"No rose without a thorn but many a thorn without a rose." 
(Arthur Schopenhauer)

It won't take you
Anywhere you want:
Billionaires to the left
Dealing with the right,
Morgan was the Fed
Before there was one.

Brief shining moment
MoMA lot made plain:
Political man
Made wealth,
Inside job
Less stress.

Grief stricken torment
Torn against the grain:
Sartorial woman
Trades health,
Inside mob
Stress test.

Unusual suspect
Suspects triangulation:
In between
Even woman in,
And odd man out
Back tricking himself.

Betting the farmed
Family man ran:
Back to his shit
Filled rose upon rows,
Of blown backed thorns
Hurt by feigned liability.

Self-made sabotage
Her proud failure:
Your lost fortune
Teller keeping up,
Appearances disappear
Here in this unjust desert.

"There is nothing in the desert, and no man needs nothing."

Arthur Schopenhauer. Essays And Aphorisms. Penguin Books. 1970.
David Lean. Lawrence Of Arabia. Sony Pictures Home Entertainment. 2012.
John E. Mack. A Prince Of Our Disorder: The Life Of T.E. Lawrence. Harvard University Press. 1998.
Lewis Hyde. Trickster Makes This World: Mischief, Myth, And Art. Farrar, Straus, and Girous. 2010.
Ridley Scott. Prometheus. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment. 2012.
T.E. Lawrence. Seven Pillars Of Wisdom. Vintage Classics. 2008.

Sunday, 13 July 2014

The Rebirth Of Tragedy

Sexual Personae
Camille Paglia
Penguin Books Ltd,

Review by Rory A.A. Hinton

"She's mad but she's magic." (Charles Bukowski)

Sexual Personae

"Apollo is the Western eye victorious."  (Camille Paglia)

She spoke fear
Fearlessly leaving
Nothing beneath,
Between nor behind
Her past lives.
Mother, father
Husband, friend:
Abused, abandoned
Adultery, assaulted.

He heard all
Always every word
Howled heretofore,
For there is no lie in her
Dionysian fire.
Dickinson swallow
Flying south:
Nesting your verse
A live universe.

She sat ruling
Rulers measured
Upper and lower,
Mistress lady
Of all womb men.
Black eyes closed
Tenderness exposed:
Smiting her enemies
Captive audience.

He lied still
Stilling her lion
Sphinx immovable,
Presents her
Apollonian ice.
His eye shadows
Eye-lined Nefertiti:
Connoisseur of her

Camille Paglia. Sex, Art, And American Culture. TVO. 2010.
Camille Paglia. Sexual Personae: Art And Decadence From Nefertiti To Emily Dickinson. Penguin Books Ltd. 1992.
Charles Bukowski. Women: A Novel. Ecco. 2007.
Friedrich Nietzsche. The Birth Of Tragedy. Dover Publications. 1995

Wednesday, 2 July 2014

Madness For Breakfast

By Rory A.A. Hinton


Time of the month.
Crime of the century
Twenty one, two, three
Counted the seconds out
Within the waiting place.

Pictured frames spoke
Ten thousand words
Certified just for you.
You, Doctor Martin,
Ate madness for breakfast.

Hovered hen-like,
Zen liked this chick
Chirping ruse her.
Crazy Cock a doodled
On a prescription pad.

Protected professionally,
Consented confessionally
Compacted universe, where
Every pretty thing
Broken was spoken.
Nothing over looked    
Like mid-wife strife.
Life teaches care
Full of the broken eggs,
And the deepest words.

His less was always more
The most attempted to offer.

Martin Theodore Orne: 1927 - 2000.

Anne Sexton. The Complete Poems. Mariner Books. 1999.
Henry Miller. Crazy Cock. Grove Press. 1994

Tuesday, 3 June 2014

The Dolores O'Riordan Diet

The Machinist
Brad Anderson

Review by Rory A.A. Hinton

The Machinist

Brad Anderson's The Machinist is a cinematic commentary on the Kafka-nightmare, with The Castle doing indirect duty as the narrative vehicle. After several viewings the subtlety of the symbolism can't be missed. Then again, maybe I am idiot enough not to have picked up on this on first viewing. Yes, Dostoyevsky makes an appearance, along with Christian Bale who, to prepare for this role, stuck to the Dolores O'Riorden diet: coffee and cigarettes. Is guilt overrated? Watch the film and find out. Then watch it again.

Brad Anderson. The Machinist. Paramount. 2004.
Franz Kafka. The Castle. Wordsworth Classics. 2009.
Fyodor Dostoevsky. The Idiot. Penguin Classic. 2004.
The Cranberries. To The Faithful Departed. Island. 1996.

Thursday, 1 May 2014

Faster Thrill Pussycat

by Rory A.A. Hinton


Isolation is the indispensable component of my happiness. When I have guests in my home I feel strangely estranged. I keep my entertaining down to a minimum. Above the front door of Plato’s Academy was a sign that read: “Let No One Enter Here Who Is Ignorant Of Geometry.” If I had a sign above my front door it would lack the last five words. I have nothing against the grammar of space. What I am against is the violation of my isolation. I can happily work a room when I want to. Isolation does not imply misanthropy. I am just a person who has figured out how I want to live.
     People have asked me if I was lonely living on my own. I have told them I am not. I have said that I am alone, but not lonely. They told me that I definitely needed a pet. This told me that they did not understand the distinction between alone and lonely. I have told them that I don’t want a pet. They thought I was cold and callous. I am warm and comforting, at least when I choose to be. I just felt that having a pet would be twos-a-crowd for me. 
     My warmth and comfort are freely given to those I love. And I love my kids. I would do anything for them: from reluctantly creating a FB profile because they wanted me to be socially mediated (G+ for me), to the point of agreeing to look after a cat. That is what I call fatherly love. Lucky for me they are wise beyond their years. 
     At first Levi kept to himself. Most days he would stay under my bed. That was fine with me. I left him alone. Giving him his space made him brave. He began to stick his head out from under my bed skirt. Just his head. He slowly looked around. He would see me looking at him looking. He would disappear under my bed again. 
     Cats need nourishment. I always make sure he has enough food to eat and water to drink. Cats need to be clean. I always change the litter for him. At first it felt like I was babysitting. I had no emotional connection to this animal. But he began to catch my attention, and create my attachment. 
     The first thing I noticed was his independence. I knew cats did things their way. But what endeared him to me at first was his style. It was stylish of him to seek his own isolation under my bed. He found his own place. It was stylish of him to break that isolation every so often with a black skirt. How fashionable of him. And it was stylish of him to pull off being alone, but not lonely. He is intensely present, yet independently absent. It was like a feline version of hiding in plain view. Then it hit me. Levi and I had something in common. He has a life to lead. So do I. Together we live in interdependent isolation.
     Levi has a routine to wake me up in the morning. He sits near the foot of my bed and meows until I lift up my head. When I lay my head down on the pillow again he runs into the sun-room. He jumps up on my black leather chair and starts scratching the glass window on my bedroom sliding door. After he does that he jumps up on my bed, walks slowly up to my face, and then gently touches his closed mouth on my lips. That is my cue to get up and make him breakfast. I fill his water dish and give him Friskies, but not before I give him a treat in the kitchen. When he has had his fill he gives me a satisfied meow and walks away. 
     He is intelligent enough to know what he wants. And I am kind enough to give it to him. He is smart enough to know he needs me, and trusting enough to bite the hand that feeds him. Our morning routine lasted a long time. Now he does something different. The other morning I was in bed with my eyes closed. I felt a tickle near my ear. I heard him gently meowing in my ear. Levi is learning about the practical benefits of aural fixations.


     I was in my study writing. I had not seen Levi for hours. I heard a strange noise coming from the bathroom. I had my phone in my hand (who doesn't?) and got up to see what it was. I walked into the bathroom. That he stayed still on the toilet paper he had nicely unrolled, while I took his picture, indicates his penchant for posing. After I took the picture he galloped frantically out of the bathroom. Curiosity thrills this fast pussycat. After the cat left I turned around and looked down the hall that leads to my bedroom. Follow the white rolled road. 


     It has taken me many months to realize just how loving it is having Levi here. And the love comes through the combination of his independence, his intelligence, and his curiosity. He will pounce on a paper clip and toss it around with his paws. Then he will run off as quickly as he pounced, digging his claws into my carpet with each stride. He bounces off walls trying to capture a beam of light. He lunges at birds that fly by my sun-room window. In the midst of this frenetic activity he stops on a dime and grooms himself with precision. Then he is off running again like a madman around and around my condo, stopping every so often to chase his tail. He hides inconspicuously, and jumps out at me unexpectedly as I walk by his hiding places. The space under my bed is one of them. Looking back I can see that he was obviously doing reconnaissance work during his first few days here, preparing for future attacks. So much for seeking isolation because he was shy. He was establishing his strategic independence by being coy.
     He quietly walks up to me, jumps on my lap, settles himself in by gently pushing my thighs with his two front paws, and rubs his head against my chest as he prepares for his cat nap. This might be his instinctive way of establishing his territoriality. No matter. He affirms me. 
     ADD is an instance of order without predictability. At least this is how my brain processes information. I know there is an order at work in making sense of the onslaught of so much information vying for my attention. And yet there is no predicting what I will focus on next. This is why I have so many projects on the go. ADD is the unpredictability. OCD is the order. Levi is the living embodiment of both for me. How warm. How comforting.

Cat food.
Toilet paper. 

Saturday, 5 April 2014

The Vow

by Rory A.A. Hinton

And Then There Were Three

For Father Louis

"Rory picked himself up and looked down: his hands were full of gravel and blood ... things were different now and he didn't know what to do about it." (Anna Jacobs)

He was on the side of a country road, sweating. It was unseasonably hot that night. His car was parked. He left his right blinker ticking. He had tried to determine what compelled him to pull his car over as he sat in silence listening to the metronome. “Philosophy begins in wonder,” he said as he pulled back the parking break and opened the car door.
     With his head in his hands, and his hands in the dirt, he whispered his vow to the ground. He listened to the cooling pings of the hot engine beside him, and the condensation from the air-conditioner dripping onto the edge of the pavement. He was prostrate, but not religious. He thought of a picture he once saw of Thomas Merton in a book doing something similar in a monastery on a shining marble floor. He leafed through it once at a garage sale years ago when he was interested in self-improvement. 
     A car drove by as he rose to his knees. It did not stop, but it did look familiar. He squinted and tried to identify the driver. All he saw was a rounded shadow offset by the headlights of an oncoming car. As he watched the car drive away into his small town, he noticed the fenced off country lot from across the road. It was covered over by old trees, wild grass, farm equipment long since abandoned, and a broken concrete remnant that once served as a foundation. 
     He remembered the morning he heard the news that the three story farm house on that lot went up in flames. He eventually saw a picture of it in the local newspaper when the first news report was published. The least that most knew was that the oldest son of a family of five set fire to their house, killing his father and younger brother late one summer evening in August. His mother and sister were on a vacation in Northern Ireland and were not expected home for another week. Despite a police investigation, no final report detailing the motive and the method of the crime was released to the public. Everyone in town felt the agony of not knowing. There was no closure.  
     “I wonder how well my kids knew James,” he thought, as he sat beside the three of them during the memorial service in the local United Church. James was the younger brother who had caught the father’s attention, to the fatal chagrin of Charles his older brother. He looked at his kids and wondered if showing parental favouritism was a dishonest virtue or an honest vice. He did not know. He loved all three equally, in his fashion. 
     By the time of the memorial there was conjecture about the why and the how, but nothing solid. Information was gained second hand from volunteer fire fighters who fought the blaze, and from the local police who spoke off the record over dinner with friends. The three surviving members of the family said nothing.
     As the service began the oldest son was brought out in a wheel chair. He was covered in white bandages. His mother and younger sister walked behind him at a noticeable distance. They ignored him with civility. They both spoke at the service. The daughter first, then the mother. They shared words of daughterly love and maternal kindness. This was not the time for forensics. Charles was neither acknowledged nor mentioned. He sat still, mummified. 
     A neighbour woke up to the sound of a raging storm. She looked out her window and saw the house on fire that summer night. She ran across her yard in her nightgown and saw Charles standing by the side of the house, delirious. “I need to put the fire out,” he said as he held a green garden hose in his hand. By this time the house was engulfed in flames. The neighbour took the hose out of his trembling hand and threw it on the ground. She grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed at him. “Charles, what happened?! Where is your father?! Where is James?!” With Thalesian indifference Charles kept mumbling, over and over again, “Why is there nothing rather than something?”
     After the house had been watered down to its skeletal frame, the firefighters found the charred remains of James and his father sitting side by side on the floor behind a bathroom door. They were burned dead, not alive. The autopsy confirmed that they were killed before the fire was set.
     “I wanted them to be together,” Charles told the police from his hospital bed, “they were always together.” Charles informed the hospital staff that he did not want any visitors. Gossip spreads like wild fire in small towns. Soon, Charles was on everyone’s lips. What price recognition? 
     He thought of the vow he had made just moments before these memories came and went, a vow to live a life of moderate poverty, relative obscurity, physical distance, and hermitic silence. It had possessed him long enough. What better place than this to exercise it, while looking across the road at a nothing that was once a something? And what better time than now, as the something that was once his happy life was slowly turning into nothing through the horror of denied betrayal? 
     “The world is a rotten place,” he thought. Best to leave it alone by being alone. Alone, yes, but never alone, not really. A man still tries to befriend his broken places. He stood beside his car and brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Philosophy may begin in wonder,” he thought, “but it does not end there. It ends here.”

Anna Jacobs. Rory's Story: A Teenager's Story Of Loss. Hinton House Publishers Ltd. March 30, 2013.

Sunday, 9 March 2014

Dante's Answer: Part IV

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Black And White

"...since from this abyss none has returned alive, if what I hear is true, without fear of infamy I answer you." (Dante, Inferno, XXVII 61-66)

IV: Seasoned

Black Philosophy bluntly pragmatic.
"The poetic is anything but static."
Pay attention to Shelley's poet.
We need her and we know it.

White Philosopher conditioning Contingency.
"I never knew about your liberal Irony."
Human All Too Human Solidarity.
Rest in peace Richard Rorty.

Black Idols all overthrown.
"Vows never spoken, only shown."
Showing the gentleness of the Beast.
Dining at the table of Babette's Feast.

White Robe shrouding the revolution.
"Do not blame the institution."
Jesus as casualty of Christian religion.
The importance of Nietzsche's derision.

Black Truth for the independent man.
"What if Truth were a woman?"
Truth as innocent mensch.
Wielding monkey wrench.

White Heart for transparent bravery?
"Heart Of Darkness as Odyssey."
Made to so intelligently digress.
Not by the scent of a black dress.

Black Muse making it end.
"I cannot be your friend."
The pavilions are far and furled.
"Tis not too late to seek a newer world."

White Picture moving the debacle.
"Brimstone And Treacle?"
Limelight is the stigma:
Heart and mind? Enigma.

Black Bridge covered in Basho's snow.
"You are buried with nothing to show."
On the bridge of therapeutic rhyme.
Broken by world-enough-and-time.

White Room listens to the distant echo:
"We never did talk of Michaelangelo."
Old Man peels Young Mermaid's peach.
Young Mermaid peels on Old Man's beach.

Black Parker cries in my ear:
"Break my heart, my dear."
An Abelard in the end?
The death of a friend.

White Dante's Answer up from the abyss.
"Infamy went without fear of redress."
Returning alive to address the question.
Sufficiency is the father of intention.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Dante's Answer: Part III

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Black And White

"...since from this abyss none has returned alive, if what I hear is true, without fear of infamy I answer you." (Dante, Inferno, XXVII 61-66)

III: Stupidity

Black Words sowing red thread.
“Quit while you are ahead.” 
Shrouded threat as stealth.
Physician, heel thyself.

White Protest silenced by discourse.
“There is no other recourse.” 
Drinking lime-laced Corona.
Reading Sexual Personae.

Black Letter delivered as a student.
“You are anything but prudent.”
Written to one of the very best.
Casting a shadow over the rest.

White Poster inviting all to come in.
“How the mighty have fallen.”
Mexican Standoff as Sartrean steeple:
Hell, in fact, is other people.

Black Harbinger of the knew:
“I will inform you.” 
Not the only one clinically informed.
Heaven hath no jury like a man mourned.

White Accusation within the establishment.
“Personal protection from HerJackAssMeant’.”
Zarathustra speaks the truth (once again):
“In revenge woman is more barbarous than man.”

Black Law hovering like the sword of Damocles.
“We drive no one to their knees.” 
Condemning what was equally contributed.
Moral-high-road conveniently distributed.

White Frustration over outer intransigence.
“There must be a disciplined consequence!”
Honest transparency failed to see.
Crucified by a judiciary of three.

Black Rain pouring torrential from above.
“I seem to forget uttering the word ‘love’.” 
Perpetuating the epithet written in stone:
Wanting To Know/Wanting Not To Be Known.

White Confusion added to this Hot Chocolate.
“How could anyone ever do that?” 
“You could be me in another life.”
Respect the Quill and his strife.

Black Faces discussed from the throne:
“Never choke on the Bone.”
‘O Captain, My Captain’ is fleeting.
Never again my dear John Keating.

White Zen from the pit.
“Mindfulness is bullshit.”
 Here is a clue:
“Aja I run to you.”

Friday, 3 January 2014

Dante's Answer: Part II

By Rory A.A. Hinton

Black And White

"...since from this abyss none has returned alive, if what I hear is true, without fear of infamy I answer you." (Dante, Inferno, XXVII 61-66)

II: Spurned

Black Dream disclosing pathology.
“Fodder for a paper in psychology.” 
Inhaling the night-time lore.
I don’t smoke cigars any-more.

White Question asked as a wish:
“Tell me, are you ticklish?” 
Beauty-Marked hand on line.
Unleash the power of Dasein.

Black Secrets no one can see.
“It’s alright. You can tell me.”
Taking someone at their word?
The Theatre Of The Absurd.

White Curiosity kept alive.
“Bitch wants to know about 35."
Disclosure and consensuality.
Condemnation? Inconsistency.

Black Docs rejected as rough.
“The heels are not high enough.” 
Deviant healing power.
Trust the awakening hour.

White Novel read without regret.
“I know that you will get it.” 
Reading into all that they do.
Picasso's “art is a lie" is true.

Black Gifts given in literary bliss.
“You have to stop doing this.” 
Henry Miller’s original sinn?
Wherefore art thou, Anaïs Nin?

White Calf so wild and meek.
“Is this a friend I can keep?” 
This staff stands second to none.
Despised. Rejected. Angry. Undone.

Black Reason for hesitation.
“Concerned over habilitation."
As furious as glad.
Timing was bad.

White Accusation about a Subject.
“You turned me into an Object.” 
Clothing worn within her mind.
Objectifying him from behind.

Black Claim contradicting the free.
“You broke trust with me.” 
Foucault’s question is a must:
Which ‘discourse of trust’?

White Trust not broken.
"Floored when spoken."
Live and learn.
Never spurn.