It's probably
true, the soul
likes its strictness—yes,
it actually desires
its tightness
and its rigor.
it longs to be stiff,
wants to stick
to the classics—it insists
on complete
silence in the library,
on reading (by candlelight)
canonical literature
mistrustfully and critically,
on going straight
to the Sanskrit
or ramming Derrida hard-
as-it-can at Saussure.
However—the soul
is also smooth,
completely
edgeless,
and invisible. As such,
it must also crave
to be mistaken,
to feel stupid—and often
misrepresented;
to get taken
for the proverbial
ride and even get
called a little son
of a bitch, now and then,
by courtroom men in
tailored suits or brimstone-
eyed priests
in identical robes.
It has no mother, either,
so it must be used to
being overlooked
by heroic
women in white
coats or blue uniforms
who routinely check
the body, not for a soul
at all, but just
for a pulse,
for a heartbeat,
for a certain rhythm
that resembles—
which perfectly
rigid military
march, what turgid
German symphonic
masterpiece, exactly?
