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

A poem is occurring every moment

                for example

that flutter of mute flies

                over 1 package nobody manages to decipher

how much of it is trash & how much miracle

                for example those schoolgirls with their books tight against

                    their chests

that turn the head of 1 gray-haired man with crooked glasses

while the breeze––lubricous––plays beneath their miniskirts

                                    For example

Laurel & Hardy who take their siestas

        dreaming the same mischief

where cake wants to serve as makeup

& 2 feet are foolish enough to enter where only 1 foot fits

                            for example

the 1 who just yesterday––disguised as a woman––escaped from the psychiatric clinic

& doesn’t get tired of standing on his hands & runs like 1 mad kangaroo

                                                wondering about the meaning of life

about some antiseptic ointment to erase his inner bruises

                                                the scars from the insulin & electroshock

while he sings in ballad form that line of Guido Cavalcanti

                Now that I can never hope to return

        for example

that readheaded boy who dips his feet in the water of the fountain

& feels like Huckleberry Finn traveling on 1 tree-trunk raft

                                                / in the middle of the Mississippi /

or 1 bearded clochard filling his lungs with Turkish tobacco

                                    on the banks of the Seine

seeing his name written on the water: Lord XYZ

while reality sails on like 1 loud & tossing steamboat

because he knows that life can kill & resurrect him

                                    at any instant

––in 1 time & 1 place

            where neither Euclid nor his stuttering geometry count––

& the immediacy the difficulty of the days running by

            are seen represented by any guy who screams Help1
                            & dails the 911 of his consciousness

to find out what brand of life or garbage it suits him to kiss

                    to spit out or to look at in horror

any guy who screams or tries to & can’t

            while astonishment is painted (as if with burnt wax)

on his stony retired workman’s face

            that seems & in what a way

                                                    like a time bomb

At times / in the rush when 1 second vomits & turns white

everything is tragic / even happiness / whichever 1 you want /

Aeschylus & Harold Lloyd playing chess with beer bottle caps

but without knowing how the heck to make the creative leisure rise

            to the level of 1 earthquake that would truly wipe the slate clean

When Chaos appears all-powerful even bestial

                                                                (bull-faced & faggot-voiced)

when it goes without saying that he’s economically screwed

                                                (You / Me / Us)

not to mention the homemade neurosis & anemia

& what’s the use then what’s the use of

                    the hurricane the raffling off of things

                                that strip & invade you like amoebas

what’s the use if you don’t understand why overpopulation

        why abortions

                    1 pregnant woman smiles at you /

if you don’t capiche whether it’s from desperation or from joy

that she pats her belly like Piero della Francesca’s Modonna of Childbirth

if you only manage to stammer to dilate your eyes

when the pickpocket’s capable hand goes to work

        / that disciple of 7-armed Shiva: God of masturbation

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