Excerpt 2 from Composition Book Back Forward


The next station location
will be Providence. Perhaps

the next station
location really is

Providence: a big sweaty
yucky guy may be waiting

there; with your history
it's logical you would

have this question
naturally! I love talking

to you! You're so smart!
You are so smart. You're

so smart. They all mean
the same, right, but:

if so, what would it
mean to mean? A straight

arrow goes a long way
off. Along the way

objects reappear, we
go shopping again

(we love shopping)
and say some of the

same words perhaps
a little too often or

just too often or just
often enough. Quote:

She's not capable. She
can't do what she's not

capable of doing. She
just can't do it. She's

fourteen and fast
and growing fast. A

hoebag means not a
nice girl — it doesn't

mean a nice girl.
I didn't say it

because it means I
would have been rude.

It would seem that
there are piles of

stuff everywhere
piles of brick and wood

piles of sand piles
of gravel, of stone

piles of grass and
piles of glass, of ice

and piles of dirt
piles of earth and soil

loam, manure; piles
of water, of boats

of bodies; of bodies
we say corpses, of

piles of earth: copses
heaps and hummocks

it's not what you
would have wanted

heightened distant
mountains scaled from

below I don't really
mean mountains — the

piles in the distance
move slower than the piles

near at hand as seen
from the point of view

of the arrow. I
confess to loving

the distance as a view
from the current location.

Rolling bogs, meadows
lands, rivers, forests

in short, the view
from here, i.e. wherever

a point of view. I'd
like to see how I'd

be held
when I am dead

how you would comfort
my body; but the poem

should it be a comfort
I confess it would put

me to shameful sleep
bore me to wrath —

nothing so insidious
as words of comfort

and still there is
something to it

to this; a word casts
a shadow — in another

word: a line (hook
& sinker); others

cast off, cast away
— yet this infinity

is not endless, not
to speak of it. I'm

bothered by my conscious-
ness: limited: causing me

to weep, cause me
to moan as it were

in the pines. Ut pictura
poesis. The imitation of

weeping and moaning
can induce the same

if we are scammed
by imitation into

believing it is really
the thing itself, then —

knowing its artifice —
what do we mean saying:

"it is true". We believe
that things that are not

are though they are not
but just made to look it

is the bumble bee real
or the flower? Are both

painted on?... Imitation
thus relies on a fallacy

or a paradox, I'm sure
these aren't the same.

There's nothing identical
technically speaking and

yet so much is
the same. The bee is

fooled by artifice —
and so are we. Can you

see the bee when I
say B?