Tuesday, October 30, 2018

What One Needs Must Label Crap

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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