I'm on an island which has no prosody.
There are many tourists photographing me
and the island, and the sea which surrounds it
and beats against the rocks with absolutely
no rhythm. No, none of rhythm or intent-
ion or expression. It is the opposite
of me therefore who has to be in language
and thus always beginning with intentions
no way would I break upon the rocks more than
once without a clear sense of duration, and
this is because I am the real Iliad

Yes, I am the real Iliad. Not the one
by Fagles, Fitzgerald, or even Lisa
Jarnot. No, I am the real thing, untranslate-
able, and essentially I am made of
numbers. THis is how I am not like nature.
I have to be made of numbers because I
am dead. I am as dead as the island and
the sea but I have to be remembered. To
be remembered, recited, brought alive from
the dead, I rely on my being made of
numbers. Thus I am dead, but accountable.

-- BB
(from June 17 entry: "Something Happened After Lunch"