out and about
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
--Walking Around, Pablo Neruda
doing nothing has almost become the thing to do
i walk around, think about this or that, i allow myself to be
almost tired of the mutations,
pieces of me falling apart
wrapped in the shades and shadows of the others
i tire of observing the bodies, large, short, heavy
the walking dead that accompany me
hard to picture those bodies full of liquids
as solid, malleable, finite in their eternity
filled with lights and darkness
happiness, sadness, joy, pain, anguish ...
all compact in a dimension beyond reach
I allow myself to be, it's true, because i no longer want it
i don't want to play this or that role
of the young or old man, a man, a homosexual, a partner, lover, friend , companion, worker
i tire of representations, repetitions,
the incredible tedium of the clock;
i tire of the farce behind this stolen mask
i even tire of these words that are not really mine;
of the fingers hitting the keys, the brain that spins thoughts
even of this body--of this even more!
of its needs, its weakness, its hunger for this or that
the caress that waits, the emotion that drowns
the heart that lies, the intuition that flees
the memories beating
the music ends soon after the carrousel stops.