'Sandwich?' they say. Wednesday, 4 July 2012 It has been said, I have heard it said, that ignorance is bliss, and it makes me red. Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is death. Ignorance is Charles Bukowski if he'd given up living. Ignorance is Hemingway behind a flower stall. Ignorance is a shotgun with both barrels loaded wielded by a madman with no arms. Ignorance is a dinosaur foaming at the mouth. Ignorance is a moribund dog with rabies sicking up scarlet chunks of festering flesh. Ignorance is two West Indian adolescents kicking the shit out of a Pakistani and knifing a Filipino student. Ignorance is a car with no suspension, the engine long fallen through, rusted down into a cracked gasoline canister poking its orange-dry husk through the sheered cornstalks. Ignorance is a poet without passion. Ignorance is a drunk without whiskey. Ignorance is a scientist given up on dreaming. Ignorance is an arsonist flameless or a gambler done with scheming. Ignorance is prayer deflated and  tortured in anguish. Ignorance is the Moon, humanless, without a soul to swoon and a sky starless, a murky gloom. Ignorance is a priest full of air, hysterical at his terrified congregation, promising fire and brimstone, temperance and violence, and love and redemption. Ignorance is cancer wearing a smile, rickets with a bow-tie, polio twisted up into a jumbo-size pretzel, spina bifida in a super-size, 16-oz cup. Ignorance is wine gone flat, but still being drunk for no reason apart from indifference to sobriety.