but i don’t know what. i can not see it.
what is he pointing to? what is he talking about? that tree
over there in old blooms dying, but refusing to not tree
up? the moon already fake and fading,
but still sexed, still hot? is it humility? sincerity? alacrity?
celerity? is it sin? is it love? love, is it doubt?
purity? humanity? maybe politics? um, literature?
well, then, poetry or fiction?
is it a lamp?
(at least i know it is not a pipe!)
milton, who declined every dualism,
doesn’t know what he is saying!
harold bloom who understands everything is asking:
could it be the active and aggressive process of defense?
vico still bravely braying: we can only understand
what we ourselves have made (up!).
when you looked at me your eyes imprinted (imparted)
your grace in me and for this you loved me ardently
and thus my eyes deserved to adore what they beheld in you.
say what?
i say: fuck! and fuck you! and come on!
and i love you! and shit! and:
enough!