Tuesday, December 08, 2009

El Rio Sin Orillas

Mutis Miranda, now there’s a woman of haughty standing; stockings and evening gloves and a necklace made from Guilin’s gold and her hair, sweet Osmanthus, makes a man weep like a nickered child. I’m not one to be knackered, I assure you that, but for the love of God the woman has it all. A queenly Queen, Guinevere, Dulcinea, Margareta, may God smite me dead should I forget a moment’s prayer. Her children stole flowers from their beds, kicking wheels of dust into the blue bluer sky. If I had a knife I’d cut them some manners. Then they’d know what time of day it is, I assure you that. They say he got spilt in a knife fight, pierced in the guts with a bone-handle pig’s ticker. Can’t say as I blame ‘em, cunt probably had it coming, slight fellow that he is. Gardens trampled into muddied gravesites, nosegays scattered from there to Kingdom Come, all those pistils and stamens and cone-shaped hats and that family of miscreants just moved in, wife plays the spinneret on the front stoop, concha española tonta. Can’t say as I blame her, I’d probably do the same if I had a stoop and a hilera vieja.

Jacopo Nuix is no fool, fully clad in a gray moleskin jacket and matching trousers. Nuix, Jacopo Nuix, jumps and leaps, shoulders square, his feet never once touching the ground. I’d probably do the same if I had feet to leap with. I’d jump and leap from here to Kingdom Come, faster than a jackrabbit or a leaping snake. That faster or faster. Can’t say as I blame me. Sits on three legs off-balance kilting. Yellow ivory keys whitened with carpenter’s glue. Can’t say as I blame her. My yellow ivory teeth gleaming. The glassblower, his puffy blue lips moving up and down, told him the story of the ‘sombras sobre vidrio esmerilado’, which took place on a garbage scow that sailed El rio sin orillas. Never quite understanding what he was saying or why he had such puffy blue lips, he sat and listened, enrapt with the glassblower’s tales of revenge and bravery on the high seas.

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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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