7/17/01 (Cont'd)

This too, is about memory.
They replicate themselves,
doubling into twins. Exact,
but still a replica. You
can hear the aura, we
all copied that. "Mechanical
reproduction" I copy that.
Someone is justa-exposed.
Out at the edge of the
gleaming.
Done only once,
announcing a career.
Permission given-
it's all a script for
a movie. By the
time you make it, the
movie has caught up
with you by being
predicted. The thought is
the thing, as Seth said
"You create your own
reality." By leaving
nothing out, everything is
forgiven. This is the
stretegy of the father-
confessor and the automatic
writer alike. Standing
quiet and waiting for me
to announce whether to
go left, or right, downstage
or upstage? Completes
the lexicon of a legion
of voices, spacing
themselves out geographically
to hear themselves
thingk. the path of a
career, divisions in
space-time. No rest for
the weary or the unrelenting.
The sadness in the spaces
between the cracks. Give
pleasure a name.

Continuity takes itself in
stride. How many voices
in the chorus? Again, spread
out in light and shade,
unfurling like a cloud
or a flag.

By now, you've followed
all my clues and have
found out that all this
time I've been tracking
*you,* dear reader. In
your thoughts I'll hear all
my echoes before I've
even thought them. You're
constantly ahead of me,
you've already decided
before i've begun.

I apologize, that was
unfair. Can we still be
friends? Acquaintances,
anyway? I wasn't
really watching you, just
listening, as always,
for particulars. And then
we'll go our own ways.