BOOK 114

The Metamorphosis

The light opens things and dissects them – With hand in hand – The wind is blowing from the winter. Often in the wind whirlwinds of emptiness. The act is but a piece of the decision, and that fragment requires little time / waves propagate against the flow. The small forest is a narrow house / the water generates wind at the waterfall. I hear / gusts from the north, but the north is not visible. The dogs bark, the death of the master. Still with hope for the uncultivated land of squared tombs. Dignity keeps us upright, perpendicular to the earth / so grafted on the sphere in every direction – They carried a white stone, one at a time, like the years, to the tomb you can feel it – Where the funnels oscillate. Here life cannot freeze any more and the real faults rise like a light vapor – Who exploited, who abandoned, who disarmed, who gave me the mandate that I did not collect, who was before and has vanished from every detail to memory. The game is tightening: let it be checkmate soon to the king who moves from square and oscillates from life to death and from death to life – You cannot inherit without taking on the faults. Something has happened if he has stopped barking – From life to death, from a death to life, every square and every day, the different and the boredom, the faults make alive and remedy – Leaf through his ideas one by one, so faded that a bud remains regressive – From each one I have taken a fault and the crystal? Let the fragile lullaby echo to the ancient rising sun – Mennimona – Mennimonanna – Where have you already arrived? Taken from dreams, taken and twisted, like incandescent wrought iron? Ah! Dear! I spy on you, my dear sun: you push me behind / you have two corners important to us. One of the warm dawn, vaporous and clear. One, one of the low dawn that touches the point. / Man is not very old: he has recently thought of possessing – Fertilized by many men, like a bitch. That is the base, when the earth turns in three seasons. Let me look at how fertile it is. Raise the straight shadow, hands like a chalice, hosting the sun. Align yourself and bend. Raise the infinite shadow, suitable for the long night of its conception, exhausted, warms the belly. / From the divided fruit the excess juice flows. That is the temple: let the sun enter, kiss the place where the seed is placed, in the black niche, honeyed pearl. Other inexorable corners you will touch as you turn and the vials of the fruits will swell in the sun. Colored oranges and striped apples – To the drum of their gallop, the whistle of their breath from nearby, perhaps it does not find me at the appointed place, perhaps hidden among the spherical branches, and the swollen life pushes, so that it does not kill me. It is not convenient for me to force the wind. I have prepared a crucible of shells, perhaps late for you.

I play with the beauty of the shapes, I cut them, I see them again, I color them. The sun melts the mud and depresses the pace – From here it was courageous to shape the slippery clay, the useful and gray pottery to contain humble foods, soups and seeds. It was the first created. Other stones for arrows, other bunches and then hot metals to forge: high the temperature never reached by the fire / that dripped from the rocks, and the glass from the sand, alongside the proud priest. Who have grasped directions of time and spread symbols scratched on the rocks, placed rocks as directions. The craftsman and the woman bent plastic, clay, and dried it, irreversible shapes that shatter. / The king appreciated both and wanted the colored shapes in his tomb. Also man’s fantasies were born and the stories and the statues and the guilt and the law and the justifications and the verdict / the condemnation. And so low the sun, but to the lesser arc it rises again. I am on earth spectators like you, in the theater / the house without people / the earth without wisdom. All the other is soaked in memories mostly spectators, mostly dead. Like the coral colonies in piles they die, like the white stones on the tomb, plowed, raked. The shadow is more than twice at noon of the true height. I seek the miracle, even just a stone that does not fall, even just a leaf that sways without the wind. Because I think of the outside, the properties of the liquid in which we are immersed are mandatory. I think they enter for a moment or if I only think it, I recognize the existence, and my tracks / where there is other matter and other space, outside the immense prison, outside the fact. I am

 not here to repeat the script, but I dismantle the starry wings / and I knock down the dress of the universe, and I leave the scene naked geometric of armatures and pylons, pendulous of papers and deep of niches of darkness. Hollow sky, I stand you in the cotton wool of vapors, rejected nest, in the thin layer.

The moon projects the last dreams, but the sun’s elves are already crowding. Fueling a fire of thoughts it says – Go – In the cold and damp soil. It says – Go, leave again, leave the fairies of silvery light, then gather the fairies and the elves and bind them together. A greater god stretches the sheet again / then they walk and……………………

It contains few lines and few suns, which branch out thinner, united with that trunk, it is nothing but an uprooted tree, it does not move from this, it changes from this, but only from this it wriggles, it prays, but it is nothing but a being of beings and does not travel, traveling / only by killing and stealing the subordinate rises and devours the surrounding. He rises and devours. The high Prince, what can he do. The higher he touches the void and the silence / the higher the light air suitable for a short flight – Man loves gunshots – Only a great silence suits him, he knows that the high is his direction – He keeps the sacred in a shrine, where the bones are more precious than diamonds. This is his nature: to squeeze the memory little by little, squeeze it in a hand, prick the bag. Breaking free every time, all tied and wrapped like an egg, every time first compressed and then furious climbs the hill, ritual between downpours and butterflies of branches swaying in the spray, at the fall of the water they generate alternating motion, and again it bends and again. Ah! For the missing God I lose the power that held the priest firmly to the ancestors and called me God. From whom the terrestrial order descended. I want to go down to the people from the main road and show how to cut the bonds and unleash from the narrow geoid. The surname is kept because the kingdom derives more from the culture than from the species – The golds conferred on the peak and God preserved them with the sword. So the Prince rolled from the peak in a ball and in the valley he crashed opening the shell – Naked a princess of sweet beauty was born. I looked at her for a long time, I looked into her eyes / in the chalice of the flower, central as a pistil, she waited fertile.

Here, a war appears on distant plains / where the amethyst traces unusual directions, or the spotted stone rolling the future on the table. The cloud that is discovered is not of advice. The spaces are empty, the boxes follow one another, ants wage war on anthills: along the edges of the wall, black lumps among the stones. It was the silent war. Thus, for space, to conquer the earth, and the generous fruits, and the lozenges that drag cusps to the maps. I saw nothing but pollen scattered yellow on the appropriate table, where from a center I sprinkle beetles to scamper tracks in various directions. And from there I looked, and from here I gazed – Why, why, is the future so vague? Why, why does it not take a direction and does not take a shape, why do I not push it like a breath that thins out the pollen in a fan (like a breath). Many graves and the cut flowers for a permanent spring and for a stable object. And I return to the past several times to bombard. Why don’t I direct it? The ground on which I walk is scattered with ground, scattered, blue lapis lazuli, my step without direction twists – I twist my step where the metamorphosis unravels that from the present makes the future? Where does the expectation of strength depart, from the lion, from the roar? Like the feline and the dog it sweats from the tongue, and I dissipate the vapors from the thought, and breathing I sweat, I vanish into living and evaporate. In the breath that envelops me, inside that cocoon how I wrap myself, a wolf with many double-rowed udders, from which men drink, where they suck from the existent and imagine the nonexistent / so slowly they grow again and lean growing to disregard the measure.

December 9

And with that I live. / Where the sun nests. Before dawn rises and the day presses. / I declare that life begins again. / Of progressive light. Dazzle, dazzle you, first ray. You can no longer go down, five fingers from the right shadow, the mind is perhaps finally bare, it has built machines imitating the sun. And under its scattered bones – The small horizontal arms stretched out far from the long shadow. Today I besiege myself in solitude, in the wide ocean / in the woods where the warrior wind rests, the heart beats lively at the narrow carotid, and the sap embraces in a net. In its pulsation this heart commands human times, while the millstone squeezes the daily degrees into a sector. / Slow the sap in the stems / the voice that descends from the waterfall echoes clearly – Life has risen and the wave is still. / Cracks spread in the ice – The northwest wind embraces me, the wind that comes from the starry chariot embraces me, not the dawn, the sunset you recognize on the water and the inversion of all things, protected by the hood from the gusts, the low arch envelops me warmly anyway / short waves ripple in the sun in favor of the current that goes south, but at the precipice I am in a hurry, I must go forward, like an enclosed globe, a tight hand, however I open myself in winter like a corolla to see far away, like the wind that uncovers mountains. The horses of the sun climbing like a round hill, listen to the wind that tinkles the bluebells – And the mother with the words lit the fire and the fire stole them away and wrapped them in a right-handed smoke – The ray fell straight and lifted the world to the pivot – The fire twisted the words above the rounded belly

And in the beyond I found dead places, retroflexed currents to the protected beaches, along the river, which the wind passes over dilated in a warmth. Quiescent places I found wrapped in reflections, places where life is stored. The purposes no longer emerge sharp. This bank covers other borders, beyond it lies down. So you are portrayed, lost, leaning on the edge that lightly brings sparks to rise (the reading as the second is the right one). This state does not support a threat / but far away if from the blood spilled upstream a thread descends; to the killed, to the ready and to the wounded, the meaning of his life drips out, if around the catastrophe shakes with muffled tremors, if the plant falters, if the animal is silent, if the living buzz thins out and dies. If the future is plundered and clings around things to crush them. The future congeals and slumps over the man who devastates, that everything is destroyed by my fault and the harmony of the kingdom broken in bickering and war, but I hold the peace that spreads poisonously, crushes men, humiliates them, distorts them, numbs them. It poisons not only men, but things. What beauty you create with each day that rises and dies, the highest intention of being a slave, of courting the King and meanwhile spitting on things, bivouacking on marbles and eating insects. The energy you derive from the earth waste around / you can move everything by burning; turn the earth with the tips of the plow / subjugate the vegetables, that the bees do not approach its flowers, in long rows and cages, and raises the ferocious dust (who produces beauty, has all the rights). They are all dead, my trace is wounded. He who from the pedestal hints at a direction, tramples signs and pushes the motifs into a precipice, the skilled seeks a thousand streams of truth. What is not important weighs / and gathers and rolls in the wind / thus forms the life that has it, tortuous, dense, dynamic, capable of deforming and forming, from the measure and rhythm five petals and points to the place of the pond, to the swamp, to the fertile mud and planes and straight lines and points does not know where it first arises. So I find myself lost in delirium without the symmetry that supports us, like a scaffolding, and the acrobat’s ropes without the points and lines of measure. The superfluous triumphs in what exists, often festive, illuminated in that measure that binds it, the reason cannot be found, because it is produced, but it is not the source. What we recognize is not to see what is not there. Behind among the causes there is nothing that interests: what interests is what is created, what is being created. As it springs and arises, as it breaks in a thousand cases, in the metamorphosis it changes and multiplies and does not recognize itself. The existing one handles, if you are alive then it patches, decorates, let it be the proof. / It inflicts, inflicts.

I raise a bottle of water to drink / and existence looks at me, its only goal is to subsist, the earth and I to dwell, and the piss and the blood and the narrow sewer. It appeared very quickly, it hid in the rain. I am here bent over the stars in the black liquid that envelops from afar. Having killed the poet in a cage – Simulates the hard heart of a stone. December 14 I land on this land with a fishy sea from which birds come in cautious flights, and men do not cultivate or breed, but a few, one by one, gather and hunt a little food with silent arrows. They move rocks and things, they waste, they raise observatories, they take liquids from the fruits, they light lights and lamps in the night and hot fires, and they bring their voracious knowledge to the landing; they laugh like wild beasts, they sleep in groups on open beaches, one as a sentry, they know what the weather will be like tomorrow and perhaps the day after, I do not see flattened fields, I do not see the wound of the plow. / I land on the rock and the shore and contaminate the wind with different breaths, set sail from the earth, it was the earth: the earth exists anyway, after an illusory fog. The earth exists even if confused, if death does not intervene, if the earth does not exist after the earth and space after space / the smell of stockfish, the vegetables in a cone that remain in the heart of the fog, at the side of the compiled life, distant regurgitations of stars – Make me higher than the intermediate animals, make me higher where hopes are narrow, high than flight, so that the hunt does not concern me and I know later the thud that reverberates. Perhaps it is my fire that lights up again, perhaps it is my unarmed and clandestine host – Rise up, embrace on the blood of things what is missing, what has already vanished, furtively wants the sugar that takes if the lack, the disappearance is seen, not only the appearance, only the new that annihilates and that erases – Generations that propagate from generations, dissipating the treasure, making the front; and let it be great; let it be wide, alive, not a nomadic raid, not an infamous trajectory of freedom / not greedy cultivation, greedy teeth and wheels, not where you go, where you return. Not so things are: when you have quickly burned the clearings, and the meadows are governed and combed, devoid of the color of the blueberry, I see as if an insect or a spider were advancing, the delivery to whom to give? Without generations behind him, miserable the one who wants to govern without virtue, only joins and then leaves, without a fabric to give, but open boxes to take. Be careful who we take as leaders and before that as functions. If we build a machine to do, let’s decide first what to do – I put on the crown and I am the King: it doesn’t matter that the crown is made of tin, but that the man underneath is not made of tin. December 15 And from there he sets sail, and from there he surrenders, through the arms of the tormented cosmos, from there he saw love even before the light re-dyed things. Still in the slow darkness, where the exuberant heart reappears, leaving an illusion of madness. / On still layers of things, uncertainly navigating, the symbols empty one by one and the things explain themselves porous, dull, dull. The bones in the crypt while the effigy on a quarter of the vault remains more than the things, where is the pale, reconstricted love? Invasion of bedbugs and fleas for the waste, you soon enclose the solemn equations in a case, gene of the world, to make the world, and from there make the world with loose reins / from there what do you fish? Life is increasingly fragile: it wants to come down here, where the energy is deepest. And every atom is configured by versatile rules, understanding in depth. The most stable group consumes all the others as peace is born from a forest and the whip splits them and raises them up. Thus the mixed layers that win, perfect are raised again, are raised again to the wind. But those dormant or glittering and mobile groups, want to win the simple, the equal. Thus it associates and reassociates like life: as in a forest and an undergrowth. But in a forest, but after still aggregating, they remember the improbable; they raise up what is dead. Yet existence already before chooses and re-chooses to the point of arrogance, already before things knew how to find each other and the motion turns on and off, the motion imprisoned and placed in a thing, is freed, turns on. / When it is enclosed, confined and closed, it calls for something else. December 16 I found a way out: it is under a stone. A stone that curves under the ground. Masks you look for, masks you divine, that you transfigure, transmute, and you are manipulated, dismayed, do not take from elsewhere: slowly art you learn and understand the future. Slowly you surrender and become bitterly conscious, afraid of your flight. Console yourself, not far away the alternation, the modification, the birth of the unborn child is urgent. Here the swords cut the cords, there solar amber, the vast cloak / soon you emerge from the water, from the wave that tears you, and the water that curls. Soon you confuse the vast with the small: you see the morning in the evening. I suppose that hope is dead / the chopped hope