Addicted to Assertion

We are aphorists,
Every poem of us;
We are sententious.

We moan in our chains,
Linking the forms of to be.
This is that. This is what that
Seems to be. That would be this,

Actually. That would only
Be this, actually.
Oh, the irony

That that is not that,
That this is not this.
We tack like sailboats,
Mince crabwise sideways.

This is, when the wind
Is with us. If not, we shift,
Sidle to the farther shore.

We progress against the tide.
We are rarely straightforward.
We know that further motion
Is doomed by what is,

By what definitely is.
Only paradox
And contradiction
Gain ground against existence.