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?