.
I once trafficked in ladies to find just
the one
I could train as the perfect
receptive syntactical lens:
to sort out the sentences, lend them
the grace
and the pace of
convivial diction, a well-bred young
woman who rarely read fiction (she'd
much prefer
.
Hobbes, Kant and Hume) I'd
treat with the blooming
immensities of
my respect for the bulwark of all
the defenses she'd wield that I'd
need against
ill-begot ventures. With a gasp I
remanded Amanda
to this sacred task the moment she strode
into view –
.
it was clear I'd find nobody
else with the same alert
sensitive snap, apprehending the least
apercu and velleity,
and who'd be able to rid us of what one
needs must
label crap: to be sensitive sensor and
censor a qui j'irai
envoyer chaque nouveau truc,
each precious new thing
.
that I daily will do which I wittily label sneak
preview
(I am a droll sort, as she'll
see) and
that she, only she
and herself after me, none the better or worse for
how
virtually she and I would be tools in the service
of aiding the cause, an objective case her and obedient
.
me, which (now turning to who) would thereby soon
free her herself, my myself, not to mention one's
oneself
to float up and onto and over the ramparts of
subject
and object, the nominative and
the word after of, to or with
prepositionally dangling
impotently and abjectly dejected,
.
oh what would become of the glory
we'd just have
projected but sometimes (as now)
clearly knew was
a no-go, a phooey, too gluey to
think it would ever
be served. But it would. Oh it
would! Be served, so to say.
And to use the vernacular, be
just the whiz, just the fizz,
.
just the ism, the prism, le truc
absolut that turned out to be
perfectly what the tight posse of
she, me, herself, I and we,
whether virtually or in
exigent actual separate collectively
parsed permutations of that noun
or adjective, adverb
or verb, in the long and the short
run, deserved.
.
.
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