for Pierre Ryckmans (1935-2014) Whimsy, an art he lived by. From Chesterton’s lamp-post He saw an asylum of Napoleons, In Don Quixote the noblest hero, Truth battled in dialogue with imbeciles. The burning forest kept him alive, the flames from which burned deep inside. Complimented the great Chou en Lai for declining to pen poetry. In life’s shitstorm, poking fun at idiots, Wit, calligrapher’s stroke, slight withering wince, were his umbrella, shelter from humbugging humanity. Passion, pausing with irony, fun on a seesaw.
In Memory of a Useless Man