1 Hour, 28 Minutes and 44 Seconds
1 HOUR, 28 MINUTES AND 44 SECONDS
you must think of the body as a tridimensional object in space and time, i mean
something that can transcend anything. you must visualize your deepest desire
and ask yourself: WELL, WHAT THE FUCK, MAN?
you must stay completely still and listen to your neighbor talk about football. politics
how the world turns. all of your neighbors inside all of these tiny rooms
apartments
compartmentalized mansion inherited from a big shot and now rented out, each millimeter of
space maybe a euro or two
the walls thin like vertebrae; people walking up and down the hallway, if you lean in
you can hear the heartbeat of the person from inside the room next to you, and so on. . . and so
on…
everything beats like a drum. you must sit completely still & maybe you'll get some new ideas.
new poems
not the same old boring stuff, really,
we would like to see a diversification of your themes. no more! no more of this blood business!
the city as a body with organs and veins and walls of flesh! no more of this loneliness, above all
this loneliness! no more of it! we understand you might be feeling unbearable, but have you
heard of waterfalls?
cascades?
race cars?
words that mean something completely different if you move them in various contexts? have
you heard of style? disco? no more! tell me of the first man who climbed mount everest & all of the bodies he had to pass to stride on. tell me of the other men that were with him,
tell me how feeble this life is, make me anxious and alert and aware; but until we can tackle the meaning of life and death,
we must deal with the uprising of fascism.
no more! no more of these politics. instead,
tell me about the politics of oh my god i must go out again into the world and walk along the
same paths that others walked upon before, i must move my body in ways that are acceptable,
aerodynamics
how to navigate through all of this air, i must know the laws of physics
and keep up the pace
and measure my stride; never walk on grass, look up at the buildings and how blinded they are by the sunlight, think in different terms, have you tried studying music ..?
everyone in this world comes to a point where it becomes too exhausting to talk. bodies brush
against one another
hands reach from pockets to the bar counter & they never touch one another & they solemnly
go back inside the pockets
shielded from cold and frost and the night
there's a jazz song playing. there's music coming from somewhere. a man stops
I'VE HEARD THIS SONG BEFORE. he smiles. there is something terrible about all of this. he
looks around with the same smile, his feet firmly planted against the concrete
in the distance, he knows there are trains and buses and cars which never sleep
in the distance, he knows there are rows of buildings and apartment complexes and houses and public spaces, like hospitals, museums.
in the distance, he knows there were people, sitting, standing, talking, and he wished he could
reach them. he tries to imagine all of their faces, and he fails.
nothing comes to mind. the characteristics of a human being become jumbled, weak,
small. nothing makes sense.
in the distance, he knows there are other people, looking even further,
thinking even further,
writing love letters, the next big novel, text messages, essays, dissertations, suicide notes,
recipes, grocery lists; but tonight there will be fog. enough!
all of this sentimentality. we are united by the space between us and
nothing more. someone's unlocking his door and leaving. footsteps can be heard receding down the hallway,
friday evening…
in my dream, i saw a machine which had one simple task. all it had to do was dig a hole,
and bury something in it. the machine kept digging holes
and burying something in them. it kept digging
and digging
and digging
and the earth kept getting smaller
and smaller
and holes were being filled and emptiness was dissolving
and everyone came to look at the machine digging holes. in my dream i tried to get closer and see what it was that was being buried
but there were rows of people ahead of me, like waves,
clashing against one another. and noise, talking, gasping; and i tried to make my way through
and the current pushed me back. so i asked someone near me: WHAT IS THE MACHINE
BURYING?
and i didn't receive an answer. and i moved along: WHAT IS THE MACHINE BURYING?
WHAT IS IT BURYING?
and the machine kept on digging endlessly, and in my dream
the world became terribly silent. and i knew there was nothing else in this world
no cars
no trains
no ships
no one holding hands to warm them up, and no one clocking in, and no one out of work any longer; and i moved on,
and no one would answer me. and in my dream, i never found out what the machine was
burying,
I never found out anything. and i woke up with a feeling of dread and finality
as if, well,
this is it, then. this is it.
no more of this, please, sire!
write something about nature or, maybe,
the melodrama of contemporary theatre in southern america. don't involve god
don't involve jesus
don't speak of fascists
or the heart
or the heaviness of laughter,
resembling something that's pressing against your diaphragm,
botched biology
absurdities
love and romance and hand holding
meta narrations and fourth wall breakage
pipes leaking
the problem of noise and silence
coke and jewelry advertisements
don't bother. in your dream,
you never find out why the machine keeps digging for an eternity & more.