20th of March
A poem at the far-reaches of 33.
In which a formative week begins with the completion of an apocalyptic novel that will force you to write a screenplay about the ubiquity of apocalypses; “…in a field in Germany, there is noise. Schnapps and noise…;” a year ago I sat with the failing, falling bodies of Maya Deren and Edward Said—you never got me that red balloon; the following is mostly dedicated to Bergson, though who is he to pay attention to a “self-dramatizer” like me?; the world will end when you read the paragraph on page 392—in which a Mexican teenage girl, a Salvadoran immigrant, and an Arizona jail invite you to open a seal.
History implodes
as I lay hold to that
which has yet to take place.
We will the inevitable,
enduring the pain of proximity
against an impossible mirror.
A library as legacy,
where an old woman sits.
A ghost at her lap,
morning light her crown.
She whispers,
“Will you take care of it?”
History implodes
instants proliferate
angels burn
and
monsters scream.