Issue 227, Winter 2018
I swipe myself again in my rawest spot, my logical dyslexia. I cannot shape up
to formal reasoning any more than I can cope with the tax year.
But I have fee’d help with my taxes. As with this other, it must be some
deficiency in cerebral texture. I am become approximate; and, as I say
too often, hexed.
I find this shaming; and slip into something comfortable, such as self-
harming, when I am able.
The crassest form of self-harm, that I have long practiced, is the poem.
* * * * * * * * * *
On how a fact becomes a “wandering adjective”: the facts of my being are
now the adjectives of this work.
Indeed I love formal logic; it is to me a spectacle of delight, though I could
never do it.