p.d.s. 43 – vara?!
Am auzit ca a inceput vara. De fapt cand m-am uitat in calendar m-am si speriat – e deja sfarsitul lui iulie! Trebuia sa completez calendarul lui Seidel, sa pun doua poezii, da’ m-am oprit undeva in mai. De fapt cred ca nu m-am speriat, ci m-am linistit – eram precisa ca am de pus mai multe, ca e deja noiembrie, eu ies din casa cu palton, am caldura pornita si ma uit din cand in cand urat la ploaia care de doua zile nu s-a oprit nici macar o secunda. Ploua, marunt, intruna. Prin alte parti toata lumea sufera de cald si poarta bretele, eu port inca fular si palton. Si fiind vremea asa, sunt cumva si foarte harnica si am o gramada de treburi care ma fac sa uit de bietul blog. Mi-e sa nu putrezeasca de-atata ploaie si uitare.
Dar poate toate astea se intampla din cauza ca am uitat eu sa pun pedeseurile de vara, asa ca repede-repede, sa indreptam lucrurile – June & July ale lui Frederick Seidel. Pentru Luiza, de la care am aflat de Seidel si care tocmai s-a intors de-acolo, din orasul despre care din cand in cand mai scrie el.🙂 Si pentru vara, poate vine un pic.
Eternal life begins in June.
Her name is fill the name in.
My contubernalis, my tent mate,
My woman in the tent with me in Latin.
The next world is the one I’m in.
My June contubernium.
My tent mate through the whole campaign.
The June moon, burning pure champagne,
Starts foaming from its tail and rising.
One minute into launch and counting.
The afterlife lifts off like this.
The afterlife begins to blast.
The breathing of my sleeping dog
Inflates the moonlit room with silence.
The afterlife begins this way.
The universe began today.
The afterlife is here on earth.
It’s what you’re doing when you race
And enter each turn way too fast
And brake as late as possible always.
Of course the world does not exist.
A racebike raving down the straight
Explodes into another world,
Downshifts for the chicane, brakes hard,
And in the other world ignites
The flames of June that burn in hell.
My contubernalis, my tent mate.
My woman in the tent with me does octane.
Ducati racing red I ride,
Ride red instead of wrong or right.
The color red in hell looks cool.
In heaven it’s for sex on sight.
Phineas is crossing the pont des Arts,
But he is doing it in New York.
He has made up the Phineas part.
That is not his name.
Nothing is his.
He is living in Paris,
Two minutes from his door
Is the pont des Arts arcing
Over the Seine.
Bateaux mouches like bugs of light
Slide by at night under his feet, fading away in English.
Shock waves vee against the quais.
Mesdames and gentlmen, soon we have Notre Dame.
The letter P is walking across the pont des Arts.
Back in New York,
Except he is in New York,
He is in Paris.
He strolls home to the rue de Seine, punches in the code and goes in.
The next morning the streets
Are bleeding under his feet.
They are cleaning themselves.
Apparently, they are not that young.
The trees are green.
In the jardin du Luxembourg he says her name.
He watches the children riding the donkeys on the red dirt.
An adult holds the halter and walks alongside.
One tree is vomiting and sobbing
The smell is powerful.
How quatorze July it is to be a donkey and child.