I lack rigor: but and so I greatly enjoy people robuster than I am grappling (I think that's the word) (maybe it's not) with terms both known (squishy) and unknown (bold or apologetic).
Poetry, I can nearly agree with myself, crafts language that is deliberately different. Other, langue, parole—I can only brush these things off my trouser knee. There is something unsteady about sexy, but also elevated, eloquent, lyrical. I'm not ashamed to say when I was younger, reading Shakespeare, I used to laugh out loud at the great lines, or I thought great. But they weren't funny. They were just superfine. Why did I laugh?
It is that enterprise there, that, other.
If I like it, I call it a brown cow.