Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Macedonio and Imre

Closing the book, his fingers weary from holding it out from his chest, (farsightedness making reading a pithy chore) he sighs, the sun just risen above the Waymart spire. Dársena said that he would meet him in front of the Recoleta Cemetery at 12 noon. Macedonio and Imre, two thugs with Basque jaws and steely fists would be lurking in the shadows, there to ensure Dársena got away before the assistant to the rector’s assistant could identify him. ‘if you see him first wave like this’ said Imre wagging his hand over his head. ‘what if it’s a false call?’ asked Macedonio, his chin receding into the wog of his neck. ‘then don’t wave you imbecile’ said Imre tetchily, Macedonio staring at a crow perched in the branches of a fichus tree. ‘don’t wave, okay’ whispered Macedonio not wanting to spook the crow.

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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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