On What There Is

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[Part of: Poetica Philosophica.]

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Art by Elliot Skow

These desert landscapes draw my eye.
The way we fought still crowds my mind.
I’m baffled by your rage at my
Distinctions, tightly-drawn and well-defined.

Ontology’s a serious game.
You’d joined my colleagues to accuse
Me of rejecting: light cream, flame
broiled burgers, swimming pools, and blue suede shoes.

But I protest.

I’ll not confuse the thing
With the idea of the thing.
And I reserve the right to curse
Your overpopulated universe.

Simplicity remains the key.
I’m no conceptual acrobat
Who postulates as if it’s free;
My convenient myths are only that.

Professor Wyman, now gray-haired,
Inquired about you. I just smiled.
And how’s the prickly-pear we shared?
Do you remember when we picked it wild?

The cabin here is poorly-lit.
In empty doorways filled with shade  
Possible futures dance and flit.
There are so many. When I look, they fade.

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After “On What There Is” by W. V. Quine, in From a Logical Point of View, 1953.