The map-territory problem
haunts language in particular.
You know, the way the machines
can eat the entire landscape
and be the entire landscape.
They have the only way to know
the tape that cordons off
the edges and ends of this
landscape. English and
every other oral medicine
traces fingers onto hands
disconnected from the bones,
granting permanence to the
wind. When I grinned, did
you hear it? Now you can,
now that my smile is written
in miles of sand, taped to
the fence to indicate that
I am ashamed of these
boundaries, so ashamed as
to melt and go under to find
all the things that are green
and greener in that meadow
where your mind will
never find its way
all the way to mine.
Roman Ryan 