Bill Wilson’s millinery invocation of Marianne Moore’s Napoleonic bravado as it beats its way through Johnson’s work like an iamb that just won’t quit is important for poetics and aesthetics alike, conjuring spectres and spectacles of militancy and tychism, conquest and cocotte, determinism and serendipity. In this world, we choke on peanut butter sammies only to emerge as celebrated corpse, offering our facticity apotropaically as celebratory fait accompli to fuming Volcano gods craving virgin flesh. But death, even by lava and sulfur, opens rather than closes, saving human existence from achieving a polygonal status that would prevent it from living each moment fully, beauty and danger inhering in an unbounded present bounding forward joyously toward the future’s obscurity. These insights Wilson knows intimately, as he adroitly unearths the palimpsested layers of those collaged experiences of which the canvas is a charmed and rarefied refraction.