Ordinary explanations explain themselves,
more than anything else.
The critic approached the performer, offered his hand
and a drink and said, “I didn’t even know if you’d speak to me
after that blistering review I did of you; to tell you the truth
I didn’t know what you would think about it.”
The artist replied, “And you were right.”
On this partially forgettable little planet I recently dropped in on,
at a combination New-Age-Ole-Sorehead’s Convention,
I heard one speaker propose, “Let all those who poo-poo the
power of names and numerology take note of this: no one
named Ashkenazy or Rachmaninoff has ever played in Merle Haggard’s band.”
Regardless of how it seems,
in secondary affairs in the City,
the real strength and real danger comes from near chaos,
not disciplined order.
The opposite of anything is, at best,
of no more significance than the first thing itself.
You could say that chess is a metaphor for doing This,
You could say that fencing is a metaphor for doing This,
You could even say that This is a metaphor for doing This.