The House of Wittgenstein
“The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.”
He never saw the malls of Petaluma, nor met the amazing cricketeer Montezuma. He never heard a laugh track. We’d like to see him stroke a cat wrapped in a kaftan. Let him find a mechanic for our mufflers. Or raise sandbags in Port-au-Prince for hours.
Only once did he eat a plantain and in his notebook describe the process as sloshing through the Everglades.
Otherwise he was a word hotel. His best friend was a hut in Norway.
Maybe he was smart enough for a table of twelve. He could play all twelve parts.
What’s to be done with a man who lives in his head? Ira, my friend, are you listening?