jueves, 9 de abril de 2009

R o s m a r i e W a l d r o p * L a w n o f E x c l u d e d M i d d l e

Because I refuse to accept the opposition of night and day I must pit other, subtler periodicities against the
emptiness of being an adult. Their traces inside my body attempt precariously, like any sign, to produce under-
standing, but though nothing may come of that, the grass is growing. Can words play my parts and also find
their own way to the house next door as rays converge and solve their differences? Or do notes follow because
drawn to a conclusion? If we don’t signal our love, reason will eat our heart out before it can admit its form of
mere intention, and we won’t know what has departed.

2 comentarios:

Nacho dijo...

No sé donde estás vos. Yo ya estoy de vuelta en BA. Te mandé mensajito.¿Cambiaste de Cel?

Leandro dijo...

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.
The grammar turned and attacked me.
Themes, written under duress.
Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control

A red plant in a cemetary of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.