Yet another prolegomena to any future metaphysics
by Tim Keane
[ poetry - december 07 ]
can an all-powerful God make a boulder so heavy even
He can't lift it? (and a show of hands, please, who cares
about the ongoing divine myth of the omnipotent phallus
of that great Casper-the-ghost sitting upon the clouds?):
jot this down, here's a crux: motion precedes speech as
a measure of ethical value & meaning exists in the omnipotent
and ineffable rapture of copulating bodies: it is both logical
and sexual to assert that words are, by their immobile nature,
moot. after all, what's extra about innings integral to an outcome?
what do we make of sentient beings who swap metal circles
and square pages instead of evolving into the passionate currencies
of a thoughtful embrace? one concession: qua Marx, dinner ingredients
matter. ditto, water, shelter.
so who left the creel of bass on the back porch
where the day's fish dries under a Catskill moon?
and what to make of how boudoir-play tests one's
mettle more consistently than even the slickest quiz shows;
how does one verify contact between the skin of Maura's bare knee
and the Siennese silk corner of a suspended jacquard scarf?
as a rule, readers of Kant reject this concept
of the supra-liminal; most literature professors,
following David Hume (in the ongoing tradition
of Veep Cheney) dismiss the concept of differance
as a non-existent canard. yet every professed atheist
thereby asserts what he rejects: every thing is
exceptional: there is no 'ordinary Joe'; no one knows
where that dark shade of navy blue crosses over to black
rely on the sexuality of your uncertainties
and expand being, to the unsure & sovereign,
armed with an ink-soaked ox ear brush & a parchment
that yields to all the risks the mind makes,
inspirited by that empress who locked out the empiricists.
