Pentru ca dimineata imi miroase ingrozitor a benzina din trafic,
Pentru ca nu o sa pot inlocui niciodata cafeaua cu ceaiul verde fara a ma imbolnavi iremediabil de nostalgie, Pentru ca presa mondena imi provoaca indigestie si dorinta necontrolata de a fi de pe luna,
Pentru ca singuratatea, a mea, a ta, a lui mai are si pe altcineva in ea,
Pentru ca imi sta intotdeauna mai bine cu o rima in obraji si cu un vers alb pe gene,
Pentru ca, pentru ca, pentru ca la puterea n+2 inmultit cu 10
Am citit o poezie de-a lui Frank O' Hara si mi-am echilibrat raportul dintre PH-ul emotional si realitatea imediata.
Asa le zice acest DJ al cuvintelor:
"Lumină, limpezime, salată de avocado în zori.
După lucrurile crunte pe care le faci uluitor e să afli iertare şi iubire,
Nici măcar iertare cât timp ce-a fost a fost şi iertarea nu-i iubire
Si iubirea e iubire.
Nimic nu se destramă vreodată
Deşi lucrurile devin agasante, plicticoase şi ramplasabile (în imaginaţie) dar nu de-adevărat şi când e vorba de iubire.
Degeaba peste drum te simţi detaşat,
Simpla prezenţă schimbă totul ca o chimicală picată pe hârtie
Si toate gândurile dispar într-o emoţie stranie şi plăcută înteţită de respiraţie.
De nimic nu-s sigur în afară de asta."
P.S. pentru cunoscatori: "My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.
My quietness has a number of naked selves, so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons and have murder in their heart! though in winter they are warm as roses, in the desert taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn, I rise into the cool skies and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification of my colleagues, the mountains.
Manfred climbs to my nape, speaks, but I do not hear him, I'm too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet, money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror across shoulder blades.
A gun is "fired."
One of me rushes to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes, and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust, definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets, a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth, the imperceptible moan of covered breathing, love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud and animal death whips out its flashlight, whistling and slipping the glove off the trigger hand.
The serpent's eyes redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing without panic, with a certain justice of response and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa."
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