Eligible Cockatoo

“Since everything we know we know
from consciousness, no wonder we are
preternaturally stuck. A sense of things
is all we’ll ever get: and that, with luck,

delivers us into some whisper of reality,”
explained the newt, “but basically we
miss buck-nakedly the whole experience:
it travels through and under, over: spins

with what may well be a malevolently
joyful unheard hoot at our incomprehension – “
“Also,” butted in the breadfruit: “gives the boot
to our stark infantile dreams and goes

on whipping us into its own magnificently
esoteric schemes” – at which the cockatoo
rejoined: “to which we do not recognize we
pray when we assay the All and call it God.”

So I chimed in: “Cadence is the only way
I know to prod the iridescent skin of this great
pond of my unknowing: hence these iterated
syllabub solutions which I pea-shoot out

each day: they prove to me at any rate
that I quite never have a thing to say –
without in any manner shutting off the flow.
Between the two of us” (I gave the bird a wink),

“I think that’s how it goes.” The cockatoo
agreed: then killed the newt, and eyed
the breadfruit: ate it. I like the cockatoo.
Some other cockatoo should date it.


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