Tags:
United States,
Literary,
Psychological,
Literature & Fiction,
Thrillers,
Mystery; Thriller & Suspense,
Contemporary Fiction,
Literary Fiction,
Psychological Thrillers,
hispanic,
Hispanic American
pluck green fruit. Drink. This one here’s imported. Kadek left me his whole cellar, remember? Poor guy, always yearning for similarities. He used to say the thing was to get as drunk as everybody else around here. Only cachaça. I stood to gain. Even without existing, I’m enjoying it very much. Drink. Tomorrow you can come back for your car. I drink. On the fifth glass, I try out a few poems. On the tenth glass, I finish them. Then I read them aloud:
Vertex Edge and Face
I saw the breath of the bird.
Tetrahedron: four vertices
Six edges, four faces
I’m immersed
Vivid inside your room.
Hexahedron: eight vertices
Twelve edges, six faces
My beak rots
Over the short page.
Octahedron: six vertices
Twelve edges, eight faces
Swaying of the rooster
On the nightbranch.
Icosahedron: twelve vertices
Thirty edges, twenty faces
Sweat and ink
Patrolling the limit.
Monstrosity: twenty-one vertices
Forty-five edges, twenty-six faces
Wall of ferns shedding fronds to kill the king
I blanch, Atlanta
A Vivien wind
Sweeping the flank
Amós Kéres
Amós Kéres?
Tremored de viño
Mi cuerpo of fearlessness.
Amazing, Isaiah says, amazing. I’m leaving. Walking will do me some good, bye-bye hilde good-bye my friend, he smiles, she opens her little eyes, stretched out, dreaming.
Dreaming of God.
A pig’s foot and
Bushnuts on the table.
There’s loose ends and lavender
In the bewigged baldness of the old.
Amós: doctor of numbers
But starved of letters.
There’s folds pauses bunches
In the memory. And soft sounds in the guts.
There are taciturn guests
At the table. My hirsute father
In a corner
Embracing a little bird.
The little boy: it
was God that
makes this silly
world, daddy?
Yes, little buddy.
He was also a
Nobel Prize?
Yes, little buddy.
How ddodered
What?
How dog, daddy.
The green fruit was plucked? Is that what he said? The wall on the other side of the street. There are certain walls that should never be seen before we grow old: moss and ocher, dahlias across some of them, lacerated, sounds that should never be heard, pulsations of a lie, the metallic sounds of cruelty echoing deep down to the heart, words that should never be pronounced, hollow eloquences, the vibrations of infamy, the throbbing ruby-reds of wisdom. Frights. How do I feel? As if they’d placed two eyes on the table and said to me, I who am blind: this is that which sees. This is the material that sees. I touch the two eyes on the table. Smooth, still tepid (recently wrenched out), gelatinous. But I don’t see the seeing. That’s how I feel trying to materialize in narrative the convulsions of my spirit. Cursing and cruel, stained in inks, those dark-dusks of not knowing how to say it, I attempt an amputee’s step forward, a blind knowledge of light, an armless embrace of you, Knowledge. I go about drunk. Someone will some day discover part of my trajectory if they apply the Law of Disorder (I’m still able to smile), I vomit in the gutter (smile’s gone), I take a piss against a lamppost. I’m filthyand alone. Dark, sinister, mute, and alone. Someone: you sick, brother? I eject three acid heaves onto the sidewalk and make a motion to whoever asked that everything’s just fine.
Blabbering immobile
I make a speech right here
Staring at my shoes.
Toad-man untying his veins
I’m far away, high
As befits
A man who wants to jump free
Of his chains.
My suffocated echo:
A moonlit uomo
Rosso de Nuovo
Warmth in my bones. The sun’s coming out. I grapple with myself, I set off a fight. I and my someones, the ones they say have nothing to do with reality. And it’s only this I have: I plus I. I understand nothing. My nothings, my vomits, to exist and understand nothing. To have existed and to have suspected an iridescence, a sun beyond all selves. Beyond all yous. Amós Kéres. Frank and fervent but renouncing in this instant Amanda, kiddo, university.Kiddo, yes, like a little goat-doe. Kiddo’s a word