Regress

Tiresias shaped this thought, “Now is not the time to rely

On Reason’s charter. As Herr Hebbel once said, If language had been

The creation, not of poetry, but of logic, we should have only one.

My intuition tells me, though arduous, we must rappel this cliff face

Into Hell. Besides, it’s not without lithic and vegetative anomalies.”

And leaning over the Edge I saw what appeared to be Outcroppings

Of Rock and Branches jutting from the Sheer Wall; branches seemingly

Blown by the din because the Air was Dead and the Musty Heat

Spurred no Wind. “Look closely,” Tiresias advised, “Those are

The Limbs and Members of the Damned locked in the Scalded

Rock below. Their Suffering will guide our Descent.” “Hold up,”

Sounded Virgil, “Here comes Forcas.” And up swaggered a Devil

Of Hormonal Dimensions, as square as a Bauhaus church. And on his

Shoulder he carried, like a Rodent’s Casket, a Boom Box;

The source of the cacophony that iterated among these rocks.

And Tiresias interfaced, “TURN THAT FUCKIN’ THING DOWN!!

You wax such a Din that the Sinners can’t hear the Prayers arriving

for them; an Irony for certain because that Infernal Machine’s

Inventors suffer here, while the Living become reluctant Supplicants,

Confronted with its Evil in every public sphere.” At this Forcas frowned

And popped the tape, and the White Noise of Distant Shrieks & Cries

Was restored. “You goin’ down to my orbit?” asked the fiend.

“Indeed,” answered Virgil, “This Lad is keen to confirm

His suspicions about the Ultimate Consequences of Cognitive Science.”

And Forcas squared to look at me, “So you’re going to navigate

My Partisans for a Negative Proof? The Anti-Truth which outlasts

Any set of Reductions. I’ll call you Cockroach then. Be careful,

They’re a Cunning Lot. Metis, that’s what the Greeks called

What they got. From Greeks to Geeks. And before they’ll surrender

Any of their Dooming Beliefs, they’ll cut you as soon as not.”

“Point taken,” snapped Virgil, “Now we’d like to begin our Descent.”

“Wait, I want you to wear these,” Announced Forcas. “Golf Shoes?”

I thought. For the Soles of the Footwear were studded with Spikes,

With Needles embedded Toe to Heel. And Forcas said, “You’ll get

Better traction on a Head, or Leg or Ass of the Dead.” “I didn’t

Sign on to torture,” I rebuked. “Look,” countered Forcas,

“Their extremities are slimy from the heat and slippery under foot.”

“Do it!” yelled Tiresias, “These are Positivists, Programmers,

Game Theorists. To them pain is naught but ones and zeroes.

Besides in good time you will pass through the house of the Torturers

Of Flesh, many your former countrymen, and you’ll want to test the Spike

On their Rationales. This revolving Plain of Reason is the necessary

Prologue and the Foundation for what transpires in those Lower Regions.”

“Yeah, you Little Dick,” Added Forcas. “And wear these gloves.

The Fingers end in grappling Hooks and the Palms are sewn

With Razor Blades. They’ll improve your grip. Otherwise you

Might take a Nasty Fall and that would be just too Fuckin’ Bad.”

So we put on the Gear and made for the nearest arm or leg,

Whatever Appendage promised the shortest path. And as I

Climbed my spikes came to rest upon the head of one

Of the dead encased in stone from the Neck on down.

I recognized the wail of Willard van Orman Quine, “Aaaaiiiieee!

Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! What Class of Ass is standing On my face?

What Race of Leaden Souls? If I didn’t know better I’d say

You count yourself among the living.” My Spikes had driven

Into both His Eyes and my Heel ground down his Mouth.

“I’m living, Sir. Here to witness your torment.” And Quine moaned,

“There’s a Difference between witness and impose. This isn’t the

Quantum Predicament.” “No,” gathering to self-righteousness I glowed,

“One could say the same about Mathematical Logic when applied to

Flesh like mine. Or Systems Analysis, Operations Research, Game Theory,

Scientific Management and Artificial Intelligence to name a Few Tortures

Visited upon mankind that I rush to assess in these lower reaches of Hell.”

“Take off the Spikes, boy, and we can talk. You know me,

As far as education and class allow, I agree with you.

When you were a young punk, you read me on Ontology

Twice to get my Drift. And besides wasn’t it I who fomented

The Schism in Logical Positivism? Cease your torment and

Let me tell you what I have learned from Hell. That slob, Forcas,

Is just doing his job. But you?…” “Okay,” I said, “Just don’t whine.”

And staring down, I swooned from Pity at the Bloody Soup

That was Quine’s Face and removing my cleats, I said,

“Go ahead, Willard. Give me your Spiel.” When I felt his Mangled Maw

Clamp deep into my heel. “Aaaaiiiieeee!! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I cried.

Wheeled and leapt to an outcropping of Soul; the Naked Form folded,

Ass protruding from the rock and set skyward so that the Cheeks and Crack

Formed a platform and the ball sack lay upon the belly like a rumpled Fool’s

Cap. My Trajectory was perfect. And as I stood, Forcas flew up to my Perch

And hovering like a hummingbird said, “Hey, you Stinkin’ Vermin.”

I gestured with my finger, “Who me?” “Yeah you, Fool.

Quite a Rookery you’ve nuzzled into there. You’re standing

Knee deep in a pool of George Boole’s Stool. His Head is

Fused in the rock. So whataya gonna do, talk to his Tool?”

And sure enough the ass I had leapt to was smeared with Shit.

Forcas said, “Consider this. The Cumulative Force of Scientific

Discourse on earth produces Himalayas of Waste. Old theories

Form Excremental Lava Flows that in time engulf the souls

Pinned in the side of this Hole. A Drift of Ideational Guano

And Philosophical Trash where the Analytical Digestive Systems

That shat the Thought are consigned to Rest. Descartes and Leibnitz are

Completely submerged in Stone: Bolzano and Mill are

Somewhere in this Hill.” Forcas droned, “And there: Austin

and Ayer with only their tongues like dried husks protruding. And

Gregory and Eccles with but Four Pale Wafers of exposed Bum

To sample Eternity’s Aethers. And that’s Frege’s finger like a

Solitary Shoot sprouting from the stone tapping out in code

The Fundamental Injustice of the Creator’s Analysis. And

There’s Peano’s Nose sucking like a landed fish the foul atmosphere.

My sobriquet is Thermodynamics. I heat the lime to remind

Them of their paralysis where the space to writhe would seem

An Immeasurable Joy. Not that I have anything against these souls

Or their Calculus and Logic. In fact, God has assessed me the larva they

Spawn—Engineers; whose calculations are designed to kill

If only because Quantification is always in real and therefore Emotional

Arrears, sniffing about the Shanks of its Exponential Anomalies.

These Buzzing Legions are the shades of technicians

From Krupp, I.G. Farben, Du Pont, General Electric,

Westinghouse, IBM, Lockheed-Martin, Microsoft.

See! More than damned, they perch on the arse of

Charles Peirce; and at your feet, Swarming like flies,

They surge toward the dung.” And the Engineers, sporting

Delicate, Translucent Insect Wings, encrusted the Mathematician’s

Beshitted Trough. And with Long Bovine Tongues they licked

The length of the Crack and their Crusted Mandibles shut with a smack.

“But,” I objected, “They eat Shit with such relish. What Punishment

Is this?” And Forcas retorted, “What, Poet? You’ve been a Fly?”

And they so menaced my bare and bloody heel that I wheeled

And leapt toward a Megatherian Mass. Virgil called to blind

Tiresias, “The kid’s made it to Herman Kahn’s Ass.”

A Scrubbed, Pink Plateau albeit with that Stink of Intestines

That rarely stir. And a Ravine so deep, dark and wide

That with my legs stretched full, I could barely plant my feet

Across the divide. Tiresias cried, “Do not be fooled by that

Luxurious ride. Quick! Resume your descent.” And no sooner

Did I receive this counsel than the Jellied Plateau below

Me began to rumble, and with a lurch and a big bang,

A Plug of Filth the size of a Church shot passed my eyes

And the Huge Thighs spasmed And the hole came home

Like Creation relieving itself , launching Heavenward

All Manner of Foul Things: the Enigma Machine: a U-2:

A Neutron Shower: Graceland: an Air Force Crash Dummy

In effigy of Gary Powers: Jornada del Muerte Party Hats:

A Print of D.W.Griffith’s hardcore epic, The Destiny of

Hydrocarbon Man, starring a sultry John D. Rockefeller:

An Advertising Jingle for the Admiral Rickover Spent Fuel Rod

Jungle Gym: the Pat Robertson ATM or Automatic Tithing Machine:

an photograph of Lucien Conein Sitting on a Mountain Of Burmese

Raw Opium marked School Supplies: an interview with Bob Dornan

In which he suggests listening to recordings of the Inkspots

Backwards for Hidden Satanic Messages as a Sure Fire Method

For getting elected in Orange County: an unpaid invoice to the

Rios Montt Body Parts Boutique for Fawn Hall’s Septum Replacement:

The Hairdryers and Hot Wax Machines from the Roberto D’Aubuisson

School of Beauty: Jerry Falwell’s copy of Mein Kampf annotated

With Parallel Passages from the Bible: Four Billion copies of T.V. Guide

With library stamps reading Gunsmoke Elementary School:

Werner Von Braun’s Mickey Mouse ears: Walter Annenburg’s Veterinary

Prophylactics: the Undigested Parts of Readers Digest: an 8 X 10 glossy

Of Hale Boggs and John Tower signing National Security Directive 44-B

Authorizing the override of Routine commercial airline safety inspections

For Reasons of National Security: Alberto Fujimori’s copy of Mein Kampf

Inscribed To My Little Doggy, What Success We Have Wrought—Vladimiro

Montesinos: a MIG 15: an entry form for the Archer, Daniels Midland

Rub Ed Meese and Win a Pig Contest: Bikini Atoll: a geyser of goose down:

The ENIAC: the Univac: and the Brainiac: the Theoretical Single

Bullet in Red, White and Blue Suppository Form: a Photogravure of

James Watt Exposed and Humiliated shaking his fist at a Giant Red Wood:

A nuclear warhead full of Shrimp Creole: a complete set of Bob Gates’

instructional tapes, How to Pistol Whip a Puppy: Sixty thousand copies of

Charles Krauthammer’s Motivational Best Seller, Hate the Victim, Blame

The Victim Therapy and its Sequel Kill the Victim, Bill the Victim Therapy:

The U.S.S. Saratoga: a Polaris sub: Enrico Fermi’s Chrysler: William Colby’s

Spectacles impaled on Zia ul-Haq’s Riding Crop: Bill Casey’s X-rays

And a platinum edition of his country and western hit, “I Don’t Have a Brain Tumor,

They Just Want Me Dead So I Won’t Talk:” Henry Kissinger’s copy of Mein Kampf

Inscribed To Hanky, The Barzani Family IS Dumber than It Looks—Saddam:

A video tape of Strom Thurmond eating Linguini: Lucky Luciano’s

Bullet proof cod-piece with Wild Bill Donovan’s DNA on it: a C-130

Transport shrouded in a Bermuda Triangle-Like Mist of Cocaine:

Hans Bethe’s Special Barbecue Sauce: Lewis Strauss’ Dagger collection:

Robert Oppenheimer’s matching Victim’s Tie and Assassin’s Socks:

A Family Bible inscribed From the Grand Wizard to my faithful

Water Hod, Gunga Dinesh: the Wire Tap used on Leo Szilard:

Charles Babbage with a Vacuum Tube shoved up his ass:

Everyman with a Vacuum Tube shoved down his Throat:

A Silicon Chip looking for all the world like an aerial photo of Bergen-Belsen:

Luis Alvarez’ Radioactive Pajamas: two billion dollars and a newsreel

Of Jimmy Byrnes glad handing Executives from General Electric

As well as distinguished Members Of the Senate Armed Services Committee:

Ronald Reagan’s soiled Presidential Diapers embroidered with the Great Seal:

Frank Carlucci’s Garotte: Castillo Armas’ Bull Horn: a copy of Augusto

Pinochet’s photo-album of Raped And Tortured Women inscribed

With Warmest Regards to My Dear Friends Milton Friedman and Jeffrey Sachs:

Allen Dulles’ collection of Shrunken Heads: A Tape Loop featuring

The Late-Great Dictator, Ferdinand Marcos, doing Deep Knee Bends

Before the ghost of William Randolph Hearst: a file cabinet full of

Adlai Stevenson’s Victory Speeches: a bundle of Plain White

Envelopes with For Governor Agnew scrawled on them:

the Audited Tax Returns of hundreds of Nattering Nabobs

Of Negativism: a copy of J. Edgar Hoover’s Scholarly monograph,

Enemas For Equestrians: Elliott Abrams’ Tongue curled up against

The cold bone between Jean Kirkpatrick’s Dugs: an affidavit sworn

By Albert Hakim that Oliver North was never his Bitch: Lifetime

Warranties stating that Ten Thousand Car Batteries used by Savak

To burn the Testicles of university students Proudly displayed

The label, Made In The USA: A wire recording of Pat Boone

Covering the Blues Classic, “I’m Up In Yo’ Puddin’ Mess,”

Accompanied by Legendary Slide guitarist Stump Hogarth,

And then turning around and shooting dead the black musician:

Mark Hanna’s Opera Glasses: Frederick Funston’s Baedekers:

Lawrence of Arabia’s Snow Chains: John Connally’s Cowboy Hat

That Lyndon Johnson used to take a Shit in: Lee Harvey Oswald’s

Signed confession witnessed by Frank Sturgis and E. Howard Hunt:

Gerald Ford’s Super Bowl Ring: invoices from Vang Pao’s Olive Oil business:

An Evidence Locker full of Air America’s In Flight Menus: Hitler’s

Watercolor of Churchill, Truman and Stalin at Potsdam: a monograph

On Edward Teller’s eyebrows entitled Wolfmen and the Problem of the “SUPER:”

A Coroner’s Report stating that Richard Feynman suffered from Terminal Neoteny:

Nine Million orders of Pork Low Mein: Eugene Wigner’s wig: eight miles of

Santa Monica Freeway: Hugo Banzer’s Parking Space at the CIA;

Klaus Barbie’s Parking Space at the CIA; George Lardner’s Parking Space at the CIA;

Ricky Morales’ Parking Space at the CIA; Orlando Bosch’s Parking Space at the CIA;

John Hull’s Locker at the CIA; Katherine Graham’s Motel Room at the CIA;

Pablo Escobar’s Christmas Club Account at the CIA Credit Union;

Jorge Ochoa’s Lunch Wagon at the CIA; Walter Pincus’ CIA Mop and Pail:

A Top Secret Document that reveals that Adolfo Calero can hold

Thirty Gallons of Gatorade in the Pock Marks on his face:

A classified ONI report that the mole on Marilyn Monroe’s right cheek

Was in reality a microdot with a Relief Map detailing U.S. worldwide

ICBM Deployment as well as the Religious Affiliations and

Habits of Personal Hygiene of every member of the Strategic Air Command

And the Salary Requirements And Investment Potential for

Each member of the PBCFIA in the event of a Land Invasion

Of South-East Asia; a top-secret DIA report detailing Operation Macula

Whereby actor Elliott Reid would be drugged and an Operative

Who had undergone Reconstructive Surgery would bite the

Microdot off Miss Monroe’s face during rehearsals for

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes; a Falsified Medical Report that

Stated that Reid was a “real” (and not just a “reel”) spy

And had shown severe signs of Post-Communist Party Membership

Depression and had On Numerous Occasions Expressed his Desire

To destroy everything beautiful in the name of the International Proletariat:

A plaster mold of Don Dixon’s Hoof Prints: the Chicago School:

A Tapestry depicting Jesse Helms dancing in a field of Mujaheddin

Poppy while firing an AK-47 at Nicaraguan Schoolgirls:

The Concrete Anagram called Jimmy Hoffa: the Last Ounce of Potable Water

In Vietnam circa 1973: the Golden Triangle with its Angles of Intersection

At Langley, Tel Aviv and Taipei: a tee-shirt which reads I’ve Done Kahn’s Can:

Ted Koppel’s Spare Heads: a cartouche showing Robert McNamara personally

Counting All the Beans at Bien Hoa: every Chicken Head

William F. Buckley has ever bitten off: the Sandra Day O’Connor Ball Gown

That Robert Bork wears in the I Am Nourished by the Urine of the Wrongly

Accused Skit performed annually at the Bohemian Groves:

A copy of the Consensual Sex Agreement between McGeorge Bundy

And the Republic of Vietnam: a Backhoe used to scratch

Robert Moses’ back: Sopsaisana’s Luggage: Ramon Milan Rodriguez’s

Brief Cases: a documentary film that alleges that after the Watergate Story

Broke, Richard Nixon’s Five O’Clock Shadow followed E. Howard Hunt

Around Northern Virginia for months: Manuel Noriega’s Freezer

With his Diploma from the School of the Americas folded into his

Copy of Paul Linebarger’s Psychological Warfare hidden among

500 kilos of Tamale Powder: Linebarger’s lifesize Wax Dummy

Of Attila the Hun: the New York Times’ and Washington Post‘s

Reporting on the Gulf of Tonkin incident repackaged as a

Commercially available Venereal Disease: Grenada:

An Advertising Campaign For the National Reconnaissance Office:

A polaroid of Richard Helms wiring his jaw shut just prior to beginning

His morning drive to CIA headquarters from his Georgetown townhouse:

Civil Defense Plans that show that in the case of Severe Drought

The Pentagon can be converted into a Giant Cistern: Body Bags for Robots:

A 16mm Dream Sequence of a Claymore Mine mowing off the heads

Of the Joint Chiefs of Staff: Michael Milkem’s (sic) unpublished

Manuscript, Criminal Philanthropy: Its History and Practice or

The Wages of Sin Are Pretty Fuckin’ Good Even After Criminal

Penalties Have Been Assessed: a David Duke Victory Doll sculpted from

Two liters of ossified Louisiana Chawin’ Sputum: a video tape of Newt Gingrich

Choking himself: a copy of The Haberdasher’s First Book of Nuclear Fission by

Harry S. Truman and J. Robert Oppenheimer: Michael Hand’s Beeper

With Paul Helliwell’s Number still on it: Ed Landsdale’s recipe for Instant

Magsaysay with White Rice in Vietnamese: A Richard Daley autographed

Nightstick: the Reinhard Gehlen Credit Card — “Don’t Leave

The Homeland Without It!:” John Wayne Gacy’s Request for Clemency

Written in his Own Semen: an Out Take that demonstrates that

The compact Honda Accord could comfortably seat the Keating Five:

A complete set of Lyndon Larouche Presidential Paranoia Packets

With Decoder Rings and little wax images of the candidate filled

With Monkey’s Blood: Pat Buchanan’s copy of the Protocols

Of the Elders of Zion: a plug of flesh carved from John Foster

Dulles’ Right Buttock micro-tattooed in beryllium with NSC 68:

An Automatic Coffee maker in the shape of an Oil Derrick

Used in the serial killings of Latin American nationalists:

A microfiche detailing the undergarment selection for every day

Of every single NSA employee since the agency’s inception:

The manuscript of Herman K. Beebe’s thirty volume autobiography,

It’s Not Who You Know, It’s Knowing in What State of Decomposition

They’re In, previously thought to be bricked up behind a wall

In the Nixon Library: two thousand macraméd Rat Skins

From a Miami Holiday Inn embossed with Carlos Marcello’s

Positivist Philosophy, “Three can keep a secret if two are dead:”

The print-out that Marvin Minsky presented as grant material

To the Board of Trustees of the University of Shakedown at Palo Alto,

Where, beginning on page 427,196,666,892, one million Howler Monkeys

Using Microsoft Word typed out Shakespeare’s Hamlet missing only a comma

In the third act and substituting Hamlet’s father’s name with the words,

“Dried Banana:” a secret document that details how Jorge Mas Canosa

Intends to rule the New Cuba disguised as Ava Gardner: a Cato Institute

Report that demonstrates to a Statistical Certainty that the

Reverend Sun Myung Moon IS the Reincarnation of Our Lord

Jesus Christ and should hereafter be known as Sloppy Seconds:

A group photograph taken of the Varsity Mendacity and

Oil Futures Club at the small but elite Calouste Gulbenkian Prep School

For Genetically Criminal Boys in Azerbaijan which includes youthful shots

Of future National Security Advisors, Brent Scowcroft and

Zbigniew Brzezinski; future White House Chief of Staff John Sununu;

Defense Secretary Richard Cheney and Secretary of State James A. Baker III;

And future Treasury Secretary Lloyd Bentsen; seven billion frames of rushes

From a never released Oliver Stone film, entitled Achnacarry IV,

That alleges that the photograph reveals a conspiracy to defraud

The World on behalf of Transnational Corporations; a legal brief

Presented on behalf of the Transnational Corporations requesting

An injunction against the release of Stone’s film on the grounds

That it implies that their agents are Whores and that this

Violates Federal Equal Opportunity Laws by giving the occupation

Of Whore a bad name; a suit filed by COYOTE stating that being

Compared to former or current White House officials is prima facie

Demeaning and Slanderous and is a violation of their membership’s

Civil Rights; a disclaimer at the end of Stone’s film that states

That any comparison between men and women who sell their bodies

For a living and the Obscene Pandering and Wanton Murder on the part

Of the former Azerbaijani-American Officials and their Transnational

Handlers depicted in his Film is purely coincidental and that

He in no way intended to slander by metaphorical association

Or otherwise the profession of Prostitution: Vehement Denunciations

Of Stone’s film by both The New York Times and The Washington Post

Although Stone’s film has never been released; transcripts from

Several Joint Subcommittees of Congress looking into the matter of

Sex and Violence in Unreleased Hollywood films: the Discarded Shotgun

Cartridges from a march sponsored by the Christian Coalition

Calling for a ban on sex unless it is accompanied by violence

Or the potential for violence: a series of pieces in The Washington Post

That purr that the Violence of White Men in Three-Piece Suits

Is Sexy, and because it is so far greater in its destructive magnitude,

It is in no way comparable to other less prestigious

Forms of violence and therefore should not be considered Violence at all;

The Glossies from the Playgirl centerfold spread called “White House

Officials—Armed and Dangerous;” a George Will op-ed piece on

The Redemptive Nature Of a Life of Violence devoid of Sex;

A Brent Scowcroft Fast-Track Key Ring free with Every

Purchase of Caspian Sea Gasoline: Court T.V. Testimony in which

Charleton Heston swears to the Historical Accuracy of his film, The Ten Commandments:

Fulgencio Batista’s Bathrobe and a Hatbox full of Forged End User

Certificates purchased at John McCone’s estate sale: A rejected manuscript

By a lap dancer named Randy about the personal Exploits of

Herman Kahn entitled Herman the Kahn Man: Big Daddy and the Bomb,

In which Ms. Randy claims that she and her Fellow Strippers once

Performed Stravinsky’s ballet, Petrushka, on the Great Kahn’s lap

While he composed chapters of his Magnum Opus, On Thermonuclear War,

In saliva on her inner thigh: a Three Mile Island Raincoat and a T-shirt

That read I Survived the Cold War and All I got Was This Damned T-shirt:

And finally a Titan 4B that lodged in the great Kahn’s immense cranny until the

Pressures building below launched the projectile from his Great Fanny,

Tearing the Tender Tissues about the Lips; a Reprise of all the Crap

That had passed through his Missile Gap. And from between the Obese

And Bloodied Analytical Hips John von Neumann’s Fetid Torso birthed.

And hugging me close about the Neck the Mathematician cried,

“You must be Roach. As you well know, I abhor the living.

To satisfy my Most Elegant Equations its better that mankind be vitiated.

Your kind doesn’t have a Prayer. I can fester for eternity in this Fat Man’s

Bowels until my predictions of Self-Reproducing Automata are satisfied.

Besides, my Loathing of Humanity has already advanced

On so many fronts: PCs, Game Theory, Behavior Modification,

Computer Animation, Systems Analysis, Cell Phones, Operations

Research, Cloning, Artificial Intelligence, Robotics, ATMs,

Gene Splicing, Cost-Benefit Analysis.” And forcing my Cheek

To his, “But you, Little Ver-Man, resist my advances; its Democratic

Veneer, talk of ‘Rigid Members,’ and Consumer Trances .”

And with Johnny’s speech, the gasses built. And the Geyser slipped

Me from his grip and propulsed von Neumann’s Soul some leagues

From Kahn’s volcanic hole, and the force toppled me

From the outcrop. Blinded in this World of Shit, I plunged,

Catching a Flank mid-fall; a skinny affair; and unable to secure

A grip, my hand slipped until it found a Fleshy Root

Surrounded by Short, Coarse Grass. As I hung there by one arm

Forcas reappeared and hovering close to my face asked: “Hey, Spike.

Why have you got Robert Lovett’s glands in your hands?” “Oh yeah,”

I weakly rejoined, “And why are benign souls like George Boole

And Charles Peirce down in this Hole?” And Forcas replied, “As with

Nelchael’s region you fail to recognize it was you who sentenced them

To Hell and for what seems little more than this Peevish Rhyme.

But in this, My Piddle, you do not Err. Though, as Columbus discovered,

When sailing from the puerile to immortality, one does not always know how

One got there.” And with this Cryptic Remark he leaned in his Foul

And Horny Head and bit down and tore free Lovett’s willie. And

As I hurdled toward a lower world Forcas yelled, “Remember, Roach.

Your Cunning didn’t get you here.” And I came crashing flat on my back

Upon the cinders below. Virgil and Tiresias scampered down the rock.

And hovering over their blackened charge Tiresias said,

“Even in the realm of the living, the ancient dead are more agile and

Fleet afoot. Son, do you believe that the language games of science

Remain related to the metalanguage presented in the Mother

Tongue?” “I do,” I said. “Good. No matter what you see and suffer

In the Inferno of the Rational Sciences, be assured you will advance

To deeper hells.” And Forcas, with Lovett’s meat still in his Jowls, joined

The heads floating above the Poet—Polyps in a Wet, Black Bowel.