Classic Poem

Don't ask me what I think or how I feel.
I don't know what I think or how I feel.
I think I don't know what I think, or care.

And even if I did know what I thought
Or how I felt, how could I tell another?

And even if I thought, and knew what I thought,
And could articulately tell somebody,
How would she know I hadn't made it up
Out of the turpentine and kerosene
That cook in seedy bottles on the shelf?

Now ask me what I think and how I feel.
A poem should not mean or be, of course.

Or it should incandescently do both.
One says it should not " mean " — which merely means
There are not many meanings it can spring.

A polar graph could demonstrate the point
Nicely.
We have nothing, or not so much,
To say. At the same time, nevertheless,
We have so many means of saying something.
We can, in fact, say everything, no less.

Which leaves us in a thick predicament.
The pickle, say, of saying more and more
Until the empty world is full of words
To which we can attach such gossamer
Significance that the costume becomes
The whole.
Then we are all mere seamstresses.

Predict, predicament, and predicate.

Instead of taking care of what I say —
Say, turpentine or bronze or kerosene —
I dedicate my springs to eloquence
Per se, an sich, for its own sake, purely.
Ars gratia artis: Mallarme: MGM.

But wait! That can't be right. That can't be right.
Or can it?
Now aren't you sorry you asked?

(Blink your response: once for no , twice for no no .)

" Ditto " is a past participle: said .