We’re all lashed br to Cultural Helms br besodden br ingrained eyes br narrowed to squinty plane br seeing; br not seeing br only mine; br and not mine br blind. br br Culture is the Gardener's Death br who’s kind to only one flower; br other's bloom in the garden darkened br by blindness over-powered. br br Strain some may br against the mast br yet they most times br cultivate only their own gardens; br time and the past br cause other flowers br to bloom and wither br before our very countenance. br br Tempted we may be br by soul's desire br to look beyond the garden walls: br But few cannot, br but lift the spade br and plow the same furrows, br which etch our brow br contain our lives br until our death br we having known br only one garden flower: br grown beautifully br in straight br and narrow furrows. br br A few sometimes br smell other blooms br thereby open up br genius br which is br simply br being willing br to sip and know br Not Like We-Ness.