Papasquiaro’s “Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger fanatic”

The world gives you itself in fragments / in splinters:

in 1 melancholy face you glimpse 1 brushtroke by Dürer

in someone happy the grimace of 1 amateur clown

in 1 tree: the trembling of birds sucking from its crook

in 1 flaming summer you catch bits of the universe licking its face

the moment 1 indescribable girl

                rips her Oaxacan blouse

just at the crescent of sweat from her armpits

& beyond the rind is the pulp / & like 1 strange gift of the eye        

                                                                                       the lash

Maybe not even Carbon 14 will be able to reconstruct the true facts

The days are gone when 1 naturalist painter

could ruminate over the excesses of lunch

between movements of Swedish gymnastics

& without losing sight of the rose-blue tones of flowers he wouldn’t have imagined

       even in his sweetest nightmares

We are actors of infinite acts

        & not exactly under the blue tongue

                of movie spotlights

for example now / that you see how Antonioni passes by

                        with his usual little camera

observed b those who prefer to bury their heads in the grass

to get drunk on smog or whatever / so as not to add

                                                                           to the scandals

that already make the public roads impassable

by those who were born to be lavishly kissed by the sun

& its earthly ambassadors

by those who talk of fabulous copulations / of females you can’t believe

                                   in this geological age

of virbations that would make you 1 fervent propagandist for Zen Buddhism

by those who at 1 point were saved

from the accidents the crime rags call substantial

& that by the way––for now–-aren’t counted among the flowers of the Absurd

That’s how it is on the trapeze on the tightrope        

                                                              of this 1,000-ring circus

1 old man rattles on about the thrill he felt at seeing Gagarin

                              fluttering like 1 fly in outer space

& pity the starship wasn’t called Icarus 1

that Russia is so fiercely anti-Trotskyite

                                & then his voice dissolves / collapses

                                                between cheers & boos

Reality & Desire get thrashed / get chopped up

they spill out over each other

like they never would in 1 of Cernuda’s poems

foam runs from the mouth of the 1 who speaks wonders

& it would seem he lived in the clouds

                                   & not on the outskirts of this barrio

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