Monday, September 21, 2009

Madeira Jolaño

These are strange times, strange indeed. As strange as the times got the man in the hat knew that tomorrow would bring a sunshiny sun and a ocean blue sky. In Aargau Joo, Koscian Leszno and Cascavel Parana the sun would rise, shining on the bare headed and capped. Outside his bedroom window the world, fated to death, crumbled. Brittle leaves yellow red and orange, trees dropping their children into the hands of death. The Fall arrived early that year. Death, too.

Madeira Jolaño lives under the trees in the park behind the Waymart, falling children falling into the drum of her skirts. She collects the fallen falling children in her outstretched arms, cradling them to her round bosom. ‘what have we here… a thousand fallen falling children’ says Madeira Jolaño, ‘will miracles cease?’ Cradled in Madeira’s bosom Joo, Leszno and Parana fall asleep, the great heresy looming: a thousand fallen children cradled in the drum of her skirts.

I’d like to think that I have more to say, an epiphany for future generations. But I don’t. I have little left within me to say. Putting what I have left in me into words would belittle what is meaningless, too small, unnoticed, dying.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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