The True Cost Of Equivocation

The mind, following its usual course which advances by digressions, turning once in one direction, the next time in the opposite direction, finds itself – out of sheer exhaustion - adrift in an equatorial latitude, a boundless domain at zero degrees, and with nothing to confine it, revels in imaginary solutions and improbable novelties. Parallels spurt cognitive butter. Analogies percolate implications. Tropical anecdotes threaten the assumptions of civilization. Or what is assumed to be civilized. Or halfway sane. Or open to novel suppositories. Supernatural interventions. André Breton - bedazzled by euphorbia in the Canary Islands – checks his compass for loose change. Directions tend to collapse under the weight of the mountains. Goats on a wall of granite. Veins of silver, arteries of gold. Amber before the heft of prophecy transcendentally alters it to epitome. Is there an alchemist in the room? Why are legal documents always so hard to read? The language is so archaic you can hear it ferment. There should be a law against law. But if there are going to be laws the laws should make sense. And be consistent. Leave inconsistency to the mad. The chronically speculative. The roar of a minotaur echoing in a labyrinth. The maddening canter of multiple choice. The commitment to saying something provocative and weird. The final decision. The jubilant choice. I’ll throw caution to the wind, and pin my equivocation there, on the ass of an assertion, and say where there is sediment there is sentiment, and where there are roses, there are thorns, and where there is dirt, there is digging. The crunching of leaves, the breaking of twigs. Cracks in a fencepost. Frets on a neck.