I stretch my smile, innocent before strangers. The past has arched up to the surface. From the deep corridors I know well, you escape so skillfully with your sticky horns.
From the profundity, one penetrates slowly, bending, feeling unbodied, heavy like a planet and down there the sun never shines.
The present is ripped and from the firmament of what is to come, underripe cherries are dripping on me. We are being separated by three years, ten thousand kilometers and countless pubic hairs pulled out. Your desires fly out of me and soar into the mexican sky.
I’m in a hurry while you use the moment to slowly dig into my ambitions. I am hiding from you that you are newborn in my arms, the blade and the glue. Again helpless, with my will torn apart, I fly towards you would we not merge together, but it is too late. Creation can not be interrupted, we are separated, I know, by the word – patience. Life emerges to the surface fresh, blind, cruel, divine, implacable and I will never be able to explain to you how painful are the swollen nipples of a woman nursing.
Yesterday I had a dream about the yard where I used to often fall down as a child. It was one of those strange, awfully long dreams, as it seems to uslater while we wash our faces. The yard was deserted for a long time, like hospital halls at dawn. Maybe it was just that the time passed so slowly, I can‘t find the right words. Suddenly a bird flew by low, coming out of the apricot treetop, which looked a lot more lavish than it really was years ago, before age set in and had completely dried it. It was a crow, I think – it flew fast. Finally, the yard lit up, letting color in, and a child stepped under the tree. It looked like my sister, but it was younger, I’m not really sure any more. It wasn’t smiling, and yet, it was happy. It was standing at the bottom of the courtyard, speechless, slowly swaying it’s arms.
Apricots started falling from the sky like cannon balls – quiet and soft. The child grew up, like forced, and became a man. Was it me whom he said: ”Waiting is silence and confirmation”? He disappeared.
Cannon balls continued to fall down when I was already rubbing my bleary eyes.
On the desert’s high seas, your hairfloating, Arizona, you are the harsh morning of my life, and an even colder night. 1863 days I sit still in your lap full of sand. You are beautiful, mum Arizona. A little longer and I’ll sink in your hip and your thighs, Hesychia of stone, and we will become one – red silence.