INSIDE THIS ISSUE

I saw a rabbit.
I thought it the Platonic idea of a rabbit,
Also a Quine rabbit.
I had studied under Quine at Harvard.
I saw this rabbit in Bruges, in a 5eld near the Lake of Love.
I lived in a near-by house boat.
The rabbit nibbled on a white spot at the bo/om of a green grass blade.
Much to my horror, the rabbit changed into a mechanical rabbit,
Like those that exploited Greyhounds chase at Greyhound races.
I saw this transmogri5ed rabbit as my hidden life,
The life I tried to hide from myself by the lies of self decep'on.
My life had been a game of hide and seek,
As I was always trying to 5nd myself. I never found anything,
But a 58y-dollar bill curled between new sprouted grasses.
All my search had been fu'le.
I keep thinking about what William Van Orman Quine wrote about rabbits
And the transla'ons of anthropologists.
The rabbit transformed back into a rabbit
Was nibbling another white spot at the bo/om of green grass

It is,
It is,
Not
Going to be pleasant,
This ordinary, quo'dian,
Standard behavior demanded by the American economy fantasy.
It’s a requirement.
An'cipa'ng the boring situa'on.
I drink a full glass of water,
Think, but my thoughts are asep'c, banal, bourgeois, bromidic.
Cease thought, turn my mind into a tabula rasa.
Regret my de rigueur, a type of non-existence.
My roommate, a na've of Montenegro, is now thinking about the mot juste.
He is a master of oratorical palaver.
His occupa'on is that of a professional pallbearer. He carries co=ns
When no one else could be found that would carry the co=n.
His fees have made him rich.
He usually, especially on Sunday,
Engages in an inner 5libuster to avoid conclusion or ac'on.
He sips slowly Campari while silently 5libus'ng to himself.
But today, Ash Wednesday, he became my teacher,
Sensing my intense distress about a future ac'on.
He instructs me
To think about Herman Melville and polygamy.
Visualize, he commands, all the other wives throwing rice.
Such visualiza'on would
Will get your mind off going to job interview tomorrow.

POEM WRITTEN BY NINETY-SIX OLD—3

Purplish blue auras arise into atmosphere,
Arise from colored glass that covers eyes.

The eyes beneath the purplish blue glass
Are open, he sees in sky his mother.

His mother is dead, so he sees only her skull.
Words come from toothless bones.

“Most people’s minds are dull, but
Your mind, son, is dazzlingly bright.

You are the arbiter of ultimate truths,
Yes, you are the arbiter of ultimate truths.”

Suddenly her finger bones pulled from hip bone
A pack of playing cards, the skull played solitaire.

He slips into sleep, is in India’s Ganges, painted orange, blue.
Drinks light beer. Says “OM,” then starts loudly cheering.

The Florida football team has made a touchdown.
He was certain he was Van Gogh. He could speak Dutch.

Richard Rorty’s skeleton stepped into his dream, said
“There are no universal and necessary truths to be discovered.”

Agitated, nauseous, asleep, he slammed his palm
Against his eye, broke a purplish blue lens.