he died, this poet, who looks ugly to me, so ugly I could
never love him, but loved him nevertheless because of his death. he died when I
fell sick with restlessness and a weight that was capable of dragging down the whole
world on this side of the planet, while you, in your dreamy estate of guiltlessness, reigned over a giant mouth on the other side of the planet: I don’t believe in
giants: I tell you it’s all made up: of dwarfs and their servants and their
masters and their pets and their mouths and teeth and in endless hunger for ugliness
they build pyramids of ugly children, pile them skyscraper-high, because the
bigger the better the illusion of mountain streams, peaks and umbilical cords drinking
our consciousness. all this I tell you so that I forget what I remember and
forget what is a secret that I am not to remember: if someone found out it
might burst, the bubble of coins that we tossed, of songs that we repeated to
explain the difference, endlessly the difference, the difference that turns
into dreams, sand rubbing our skin, all that makes us real, in repetition real. deep down
rays of light glide through the universe’s recursions just to hit us right in
the face, to hang us upside down: we float, our feet tied to otherness: I can
see you float next to the brother, who is bigger, who is overwhelmingly huge, who
is more than you will ever grow into,
and you have to run from the rays of his moon, reflections of a beautiful
mother, who is too beautiful, no flesh and blood can be that beautiful, it must be an illusion, you
have to run without difference into a tiny moment, a fragment, all it needs is this tiny
moment where we switch off the light, where day glides into night and you and I recognize
that you and I look different in darkness, different and it is alright because now
every thing that can be seen is for you and me to forget every thing that is bright.
we close our eyes and look into each other, where we remain, endlessly gazing into
the darkness of a starless, moonless, otherless night.
