Logic Distractors and Salvors

Of that that a rose's gyres and fetches bring to its contours,
Of roseness relinquished, I am apparition brought to you.
Of that that quiddity surrenders of itself, I am yours.
Someone talked of me, advised someone else to urge me to slew
My telescope to nearer aspects, and, scarce, I glimpsed myself
In the demi-plasma that surrounds the rose, and that would prove
To be the last allusion; and I take quinoa from the shelf,
And that will be my last meal, and I will till a tender groove
With my fork, pour in apple cider vinegar, and no one
Will see me swallow like a child; the last allusion to me,
Adamantine, the last allusion to concrete "whatness". None
Shall speak of me again. 

Question to myself: What does predictability have to do with my reliance on what people say over how they say it?

I was never that unpredictable, with conscience of consonance, and so when I said "aglet", you knew very soon I would follow it with "Salgado", but I was the God of shingle. As a little boy, I would stand in the middle of the driveway, casting stones I intuited as bad towards the road, those that were good towards the house. I was never that unpredictable, but when I got older I did sometimes throw the good ones towards the road.

I’ve persuaded my wife to jump from a plane.
In April, she'll free-fall.
It was either this or get a great dane,
But she says our house is too small.

What people don't do.

What people don't do.
What people don't do.
What they do do.
What people are not.
What people are not.
What they are.
What artists don't draw.
What they do draw.
What poets don't write.
What they could, painterly.

Ontology in Birdworld continued

Epanorthosis, Bleeding Heart:
Am I dead, alive, with you, apart?
Were you shot, no, you were not shot;
Did my heart fail, no, it did not.

Evolution repeats design,
Signatures converse endlessly,
But I do not see else like you
Embodied in your love for me.

Ontology in Birdworld

And being took years off my life;
By cage of the Bleeding Heart Dove,
What epitaph speaks of this cold,

What aphorism of this love?
And being born made me so old;

And I try to pull on this glove,

With mitthorn or envelope knife
Of gaunted age, one of a pair

Handed me by my daughter; where

The tanagers sing their monodies,

And false wounds and false memories

Of leaving my sister alone

Fade: avast confabulation!
And my daughter’s smile is mid-tone:
Synsolution, evolution

Reuses design – note walnut

And the cerebral cortex – but
I do not see this living smile

Simulacra, soft hiatus.

If a fish's lips evoke vile,
Grey urinary meatus,
Do not slander me in dreadful
Redolence; let me lie peaceful
In this Kingston grave, whilst my words
Are found in poems of Hart Crane.
Outside the cage, native birds,
Praline between walnut and brain,
Peer in at the bleeding heart dove,
As I pull on the other glove.