The Castle ( or is it a Palace?)
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.