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

The humid air of April / the lewd wind of autumn /

 the hail of August & July

all here present with their fingerprints


piss / what hasn’t fertilized this grass

how many sub-minimum-wage gardeners will leave their watery proteins

                                in this trap

For now you stretch out face down toward the shade

                               of the long & hairy legs of the parks

 where they gather:

the 1 who dreams of revolutions that stay too long in the Caribbean

the 1 who’d like to rip out the eyes of the billboard heroes

to expose the hollowness of the farce

the girl with the feline & filmic green eyes

even if on getting closer they turn out to be blue or who knows

the student all adrenaline & erupting pores

the 1 who believes in nobody / nor in the Kantian beauty

              of some admirers of Marcuse          

& bursts out yelling that we’re putrefied by rage /

dehydrated from so many tomes of theory

the occasional little whore who shares the torrent of her solitude

                                      with strangers

letting grace sympathy sudden vibrations tip the scale

            of supply & demand

Chance: that other antipoet & incorruptible bum

those who come here to weep / until they carve for themselves––as in wood––

                                    the face of some paranoid martyr

after smashing––not exactly from devotion––

                                            the seats of the movie theaters

the 1 who writes his will or his epitaph on 1 wrinkled napkin
& then blows kisses to the wind / ––& everyone assumes

it’s his birthday or last night he got hitched in holy matrimony––

& all the hypotheses turn out too fragile to explain

why he used 1 gun & not 1 can of paint

if he seemed capable of seducing to the point of fever / the pulse

                                                                                        & the pupil of Giotto

the 1 who always greets you with I’m desperate

                                                                                & yourself?

those who love rabidly like street dogs

                        ––through thick & thin––

& 1 calls them blooming lovers

& they’re aphrodisiacs not only to the sensibilities of Marc Chagall

those who meet death in person

in the hourn when suicide bcomes an obsession

1 disheveled desire to bite & be bitten

to have done with all those pipe dreams

                                                            that seem indestructible

to momentarily create such a Power

that the daily cement mixers destroy you

                        like 1 brown paper bag

& then you understand the 1 who’d like to bury

                                              under mountains of plants

                                                             buildings / black earth

the slightest beat / the tachycardia of his intimate history

you’re infected with the nervousness the anxiety

                of those who act like they breathe

like they have a certain trace of carnivorous plants about them

& spend hours waiting for their companion Tenderness

                        that call girl who rarely arrives

those who come running from the tear gases

& billy clubs of the major avenues

of the major & minor stains that can’t be removed

with Pine-Sol or 1 stroke of 1 Kleenex

those who ignore who they are / & don’t even want to know

when the climate’s reputation gets worse by the day

those perpetual sufferers from amnesia who suck their thumbs with joy

because the Earthly Paradise is here & not in Miami

those who promise to declare this autonomous territory independent island

that will not degrade into scrap metal ruins supermarkets

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