Disorientation perhaps opens doors or windows. We study to navigate by way of broken forecasts. Although rhetoric has a mysterious power, it is impossible to keep it in a jar. Open discourse, the plurality of anything worth saying. The crowded road that we share, traffic of metaphor and fowl. An old form of currency that has no real value, more like leaves or stones. More like the wind. Its invisible affordances, in the games of causality and equivalence. Imagine politics as an open mic where we cringe for the speaker’s hot cliché. Vulnerability often comes from a misuse of language, misconstrued as pleasure. John Locke insists on something called plain speech, daring us to excavate his demons and implicit astrophysics. As if truth were the weight of a neutron or its elusive smell. Or as Lycurgus, who apocryphally decreed that currency be forged of iron, to encourage the opposite of materialism. Just try stealing the Spartan hoard, you underfed singer. So much elusive twisting, tropes are more natural than what we call clarity. Is it a light or lack thereof? Is it a construction of plainsong? Worlds, in a scholar’s footnote. Are we outward of skin or elusive and airy? Cratylic delusions, mushy pancake of synthesis. Naturalness, Rothko sentences. The difference between saying something in an unexpected manner and saying something unexpected, that is, beside itself. Abusing such plundered figures of speech. So, we sing like children, always offkey and weird. Translation from catachresis, the rainbow breaks in the old village. Anarchy of the lute’s erotic tones. We cannot lay claim to metaphor except by tending to a garden that entangles us in its snarls and eating the dark fruit that grows from the seeds of our own language.