Friday, February 27, 2015

Canto 31

The  Castle ( or is it a Palace?)

Canto 31

A very ordinary man typed a very ordinary view
 to a distant friend named Don DeLillo
 explaining how this very ordinary trip
 was the sulfation of his life,  so far,  as he knew.

He looked out the window of the very ordinary train
 at the very ordinary plants,  especially one
 which bloomed yellowish blooms,  each one ordinary
 in such  profusion and delight,  as to be extraordinary.

He was hypnotized by its  splendor,
 and seemed to think what a wonder it was.
 blooms scattered on to blooms
 in ever  Myriad that it was copacetic in nature.

As I said,  he was an ordinary man,
 thought he was on a very ordinary trip.
 little did he know this was not the case,
 and disturbingly it would creep up.

It would creep up that untempered gold
 untampering with  indisputably granted fact
 eruption momentary though it was,
 lamentable though it was,  a true and obvious fact.

Thus,  he sighed,  because in the back of his mind,
 though he may mistrust the mind of man,
 wanting all  proud ambition,  he knew that
 it was a succession to the inheritance
 that was calling his presence,  and would would mean

No, it must, through all prevarications and lies,
 that the story he was told,  was a transference,
 to involve in some other scheme,
 and their first site was a star.

But he brooded on this accidentally,
 trying to breathlessly form a more voluntary
 banishment of the eye,  so as not to come to this
 peace be upon peace,  or what it will.

But restless was and retraced discontinued
 was his nature stilling at your command,
 his eyes were such by trees that had come in to being,
 and  new that he was going down into the valley.

He thought he was like Lyndon Johnson,
 all gruff and he here as a master of the Senate
 whipping and routing  with the means of ascent
 till at last he would stand at the passage of power.

You that that was truly not the case
 but a poor vagabond rending  with vestment
 over his  shattering beams  asundered,
 with a quaking  detachment that was unnerving.

Thinking about Amartya Sen  and how he wrote
 of the  unintended consequences that economic policy
writ on  the history of the world,
 and we who try to decipher  a recapitulation.

It was metadata,  applied upon meditate  Joseph Stiglitz,
 and Noam  Chomsky was his name,  in better fights,
 for the application of what  data really  meant -
 he was a philosopher,  or so he thought,  in his day.

A myriad track through Kuhn  unconvinced him
 with his  Classics in Game Theory,
 that that would not be the case,  pronounce  irrepressibly
 born my and bred  mine,  it was not to be.

Eclipsed outside the window,  and saw the thickening
 of trees,  because now they were truly  lackadamition,
 and the trees were conifer not deciduous.
 how truly dense they were in the round.

Then have of the corner of his eye,  he saw the tower,
 of the castle,  strutting outwards over all it possessed.
 it was not medieval in torque and kind,
 but Baroque leaping from point to point.

It was a scene out of Gödel Escher and Bach
 with each of three managing to draw intricacies
 which were not meant for any eye to see
 presumed by the archenemy, to  declares repugnant  to vision.

He fixed his gaze at the tower,  realizing that have was  medieval,
 and have was   Baroque,  depending on which time of day it was.
 he could not decide whether that was intentional,
 or just an illusion brought  quickly to the floor.

He wondered what was inside the house,
 how many wonders could fix the naked eye,
  unmitigated  though they might be,
 voluminous though they are,  but with a vision.

If  he knew then,  what he knows now,
 he still would be completely befuddled and his nature.