BOOK 21

On the open sea

The Corsair: Consciousness and Absence

On successive planets there exist palaces beyond my gaze: much of what I have seen, I see hidden. Hidden from me, you cannot from you, corsair of life from the vast termite mounds distinguish your unlikely path. Where have you been? In the kingdom of darkness, where it seemed to me only darkness and shadow. You will not have even seen me, not even known. I will not have seen and known anything but a margin of a flower, a sudden and violent act, now composed like an image. Absence is already present, it digs into space. Whoever ventures into absence can occupy it by evaporating like a gas. Give me the strength to stay, just a little longer, to congeal the corsair in a point, to truly be. I do not exist for the spider that watches the fly. We are all with our prey hanging on life. We know and we do not know, we see and we do not. We are inside and a little outside, we slide on the leaves of the previous autumn. Where can we exist, where are we? Suppressed enemies leave space to exist. Where did it what in the permanent breath blue. Always sighs lit, useless sighs. But still, turning the earth, I rediscover larvae that can violently regenerate. What is absence, error, involuntary action made of? And even more so, exaggerated space. Becoming is the greatest absence that we can forget, confused by other scenes in the other hemisphere. So returning, what is remembered, what still exists? What has disappeared in the place we look at. Stupendous animal, where do you relax? If you are a symbol and not reality, if you imperially look harmlessly? The existent is made up of absences, created canvases spread out. I do not know if I will be able to know more than what is seen and is prescribed. From here I will be able to coagulate as much as possible, starting from the existent, from existing, from knowing of being, not from purposes. Yet love traces a higher counsel without which I am empty and true but I see everything outside. Transforming, reducing, resisting.

 

The heat that burns in the cosmos.

 

How do things become significant? Is it the feature or the wind? Competing evidence promote? Of those surfaces made space, the supreme effort decorates the earthly assemblies. Where are you, in the fold or in the crease? You grant me an hour to see the master plane trees. Do you know who you are? Negligible lives like ants. Every morning a place squabbles and almost neglects its vector. Gender voices are enclosed in the doors and chatter under the flying and true embrace. My heart is folded like a scroll or a casket, the language ignites as if beyond it were of the desolate black and broken undergrowth, as if it saw in that high and blue flight the continuation of the world, the outflow of the marvelous from the fearful mystery, like a spring of water from a cut. Sews, insists and recalls the prayer as if it had enough fabric, as if the lived bones had woven, numerous small tailors lined up. Everything has value, that which is not dead. The lion with the round eye towers over the buffalo that eats. That heat that burns in the scattered and connected cosmos sparkles with a spray of fiery wind. Our life rises a little, gurgling in the streams of the sun. Thus, fading, the universe lives. Shipwrecked, I ask for land from other infinite lands. This fire that feeds them preserves the ferocious lion, the memory of the disappeared dragon. Land to land, hope resounds. How do those fires blaze / How do those cuts of horizon stand out? That descend fervently on the profiles of the wind. Light bounces dryly on the entrances / Through the leaves it rises piece by piece and from mass to mass.

 

Migrating toward the ancestors

 

Where the twilight assails the living and intercepts it, life begins again / In a narrow ditch and expands with whispers and songs / The extreme heart comes to life, migrating towards the ancestors / On the narrow bank, at the vibration of the sun. Where are you, capricious life, scattered in the worlds? I imagine the shadow joined there, foolish, voracious / Wrapped in the mantle of the planet it was still perplexed while the seed bleeds in the sun / Of the median stars, of the distant stars the fierce sigh imprisons in the rigid strait of the moon and the sun, clandestine and mute. To my planet, wind of grass couples to the journey, infinite imagination that from one end compares to the other, for baggage. Under that pressure it generates stars everywhere and expands. Fire remaining… Fire remaining, and fire remaining. Through space it binds points on which you lean while traveling. And the open passage moves for me from thing to thing (the sun settles here and bends here). Purified in the earth my mountains buy hope in a package. Here in the labyrinth of snakes, here in the war I do not know who I kill. The apple, picked and placed, must rot there on the earth, red with fire. Flame of the primary color. The apple must stay on the earth to put down roots, to collapse. The resting apple stay on its earth, let the winds access the tree that moves. For us there is no rest in devouring / For us the measure is not holy. Overtaken, external, flying outside, I still pick what is brightest, not the essence. I pick the still crosswinds that shorten the wait between the planets. Be sure the fastes

 

They stretched their arms toward the sky.

To extract the vital worm from themselves and watch it on the sandy road to turn, curving back and belly in alternating desperation. I regenerate a double in the scent of acacias, gray grasses. Run away, disappear what has the nature of the wind. My only burden when the tight scent catches you most. Under the sun the things that remain silent in the shade venture: it is not up to me to give the sense and the place. It is not up to me to crowd thing to thing, flower to cluster of flowers. It is not up to me to regress into the abyss, faster than I should. Transverse lines seem straight for a short distance. It is not up to me. It is not up to me to move from the place where I turn like a pivot. I see straight and I think I’m going, we are inside and deep. The journey does not exist, it is a hole. That dismembers lions sees abyssed. As I disappeared, the leaves had sprouted, stretched their arms toward the sky. How different each measure is / When it overturns trees or just swings flowers the tree grafts itself to the earth with roots and crushes it and its mother takes with such force that it is slow to tear it out without making ditches and a wide hole: I contain all the rest, what is in the past further on, after the edge is seized, the edge is decorated with dark profiles, which open and assemble like the mobile and golden reflection of the sun lost in water. Like the imprecise motility of sparks, on the ridge the temporary lights up, toasts the victory of the unlimited game, and quickly dissipates with kindness and arrogance. This is what players like, the risky peak where limits and reflections are dispersed. This is what the philosopher likes, the pride of terror and the precipice. There on the loose ridge is the next, slow and ferocious. Without a guardian, looking beyond is not my job. Searching / On flat lakes, between shattered walls / And what do you do, searching, and translating the world into the language of the self. Among numerous questions reflected like a single sun on the soft wave, in the concavity of the wave the light gathers and aligns. Like the insect that squirms in the hole, the hydra flutters at the edges of the universe. The shadow has changed at the edge on the feet of God. In a marble of immersed ether, clots that merge and disintegrate in light. I see only a minimal fragment, here, without knowledge, on this fragile and fertile crust that binds us and supports us, that fading but generating branches and leaves. You must raise the altar to the cosmos, without yet knowing how to show yourself. And it pride, now dignity. It is not a theory fast behind the edge. Associated with the similar to build, liturgy that pushes towards a common wind and of it the painting of the cosmos and of knowledge, wider and thinner together seeking for it who intertwines for the attempted myths, for the solid layer of man / In the light of the marble, of the feet of the unthinkable, teasing and seeking. If only we could feel other sentients? Refraction of immense dilute other liquid to the winds. Dissolve the unresolved: lend sky to sky.

Outside of the acts exists the place, where no one is present and not even the god. Catullus in love, what do you explain to me? – The caress besieges you and you cultivate it. Of only one among all and I who of all, what should I say? Frail lions compensate for hunger, choosing the grass. Give me the impulse, that love follows me and makes a trail for others. At that hour / Oh, poor Catullus, the lack rises and then you contain nothing poor, weak life! Deprived of the mirror that looks at it. Running the thumb on the silent corner – It was tango, or perhaps milonga – It was the tradition in another language / They were the same things aligned and scattered / Similar in the universe / Confused in it. cosmos Before anyone attacks my thought / And spreading out my things in a bed, I gather them all and crowd them together. Like a plane tree spreads its leaves. And you, my Catullus, refracted twilight / you arms of love. Noble in speech, you are persistent, as precarious is love. On the winds that infiltrate the pores of galaxies, percolating with the same milk and substance. If life is a pretext for being noble / If this tired sitting at the fountain is the only valid act in the cosmos, I do not know whose frantic gaze it is at the three candles that sink in time, in descending order, for the fraction of a half to each day. Yes, be capable of the noble omen, of the wind that traces the mills of rain and all the consciousness of every single thing thickens as seen or not seen by each. That crowd of objects and silent drawings that I mark and mark with words, the prince commands, is not up to me, tiny scribe; earth of earth, fire of flame. It is not finished, it is never exhausted, the effervescence of things / and between them the next step reverberates with cut edges and climbs and grips where there is no measure. From here I see the prince flying, I see the soldiers’ few things, I see their death, their wounds: I stretch the form over them. Thus the world is frescoed with petty words stretched out with open hands to the measure / To the inflected, folded measure of the god / Of the god kneeling at the fountain with a soft and living thigh, who looks at himself and is silent, who looks at us in the water of the fountain and in the cool mirror of the pond. See who is now turning, who knows the attentive and silent gaze. Minimal things are in the pond, minimal ones pass / Few twist. From that war we will have the truth / Of who must live – Leave, and die, let them discuss and talk, let them decide, it will be right to whoever shows strength, first, and let there be peace, after, and let there be war. Strike that fist at the water a thousand times, refracts that narcissus. At the slap, at the fleece, the image fades. And hidden we will stay for that other little caught up in life, hidden. What you know, strike, with the masterful wind, with the funny coaxing. Raise the sky to the wind, thinking other things.

Before the invasion

Dolphins of the air how much harder it is to return to paradise, when burdened, and to inhale and slow everything. Where fertility and death embrace each other, so was the earth, when I looked at it and often the predator looked at me from afar, gentle and ferocious. And so I, moving in the slow sun, this was the earth, blessed with peace, before man invaded it. Even the monsters lay down in the sun, foolish and enormous. Even the monsters wandered in the sun and at night without sleep; the beings wandered far away exploring the earth, cautious among themselves. A voice from the sea twists among golden butterflies, echo of echoes, the stone moves / Sin and sometimes the challenge is persistent from the man who reads and who draws: he resides in the hut, but wants walls and signs for the fields and buries the seed, a living force that cuts the strong trees. Prune the apple tree, choose the loser, preserve everything or anyone that is human, together raid, govern pity for the servants and for the last born, but devastation for what is strongest. So it is said to be magnanimous, and overwhelms the flat world that does not imagine beyond the possible, and the population plants its food beyond measure, breeds and cultivates, and has instead created it, codes of the kings but also the blasphemies of the soldiers / Who climbs the wild hill now? / Solid legions rise to go beyond; they wage war, they win it, forgetting, bending the sign as if it were still so that it looks towards them. The hordes exchange and steal what is already stolen / The populations infest the planet, languages ​​and memories if they are not made of stone have little persistence. And the pages are rolled up in the fire, to blacken them. Languages ​​no longer know how to transcribe and the voices that laughed retreat. The ruin is complete, life is irretrievable, passed through deserts. From such large wings a flock gathers on a cliff and that area seems higher and there it resists, confined to the tip / Some underground worm and snake resists, where they dig dens. Someone among them must fold up their conscience, dig up the beautiful reality that admits everything in its right place. As on the shoreline the tortuous twig, parallel to the sea, jams and quivers. I wanted to stay alive a little longer, rearranged by the cosmos, pushed, governed. I know nothing but rain, overcast skies and rain, but soon sunny and dry and gaunt, I will have deposited among the driftwood of the beach, disheveled and lost / The rule that takes me and caresses me. I want to show in order to make it sound and make sense. I want to show until the last blow of the incestuous sea. I am an organ of the god who moves, and produces beings upon beings and piles them up. What is discovered there I do not know and I do not know if I can handle it. But I owe strength and loyalty to the king and that the after is more motivated than the present to which I give it and bend it. Life is very strange. With its basket folded and concave like a cornucopia of fruits that we look at and that we look at. Here is the apple, the orange, the fragrant fig, here is what I like to continue.

Without a wave

I have possessed the sea with my words even when it is blackened and waveless and drags shadows under the rock sitting between the agave and the fig tree / Sitting in the sun that supports me. If the ant lends me patience, searching, trying again on this blind fury, to hear again the slack waves, the silent ceremonies of the sea / Thus all prayers have vanished. Give me that possession. And fluids were lacking in my blood and the prince was experiencing the pains of possession, the displaced thoughts, terrifying dissonances as if they were fire and wind reunited in a blowing ardour, in a fire that takes away speech from the mouth. In peace he felt the vast fire, possessing the vast fire in his heart, as the splash of water was not false and as he often found stones in the earth. This, the wet and the dry, the prince found, searching for them. The banners spoke in the wind. And the kingdom shrank like a guillotine. And the signs burned instead of the vast cosmos tightened to man, the platoon crowded into a throng and each looked at his own feet, collected coins. They called the others to gather. So there remained a void, a small space in the sun, so there remained a void for the mind / In the solitary sun as in a spotted cloak. I remained myself, the only god, compared to me a miserable god. The discrepancy awaits revenge / And let there be at least a council / Of another spirit is an essence that is mother. And the cosmos of things sees like me / I cannot be a god without having created. The caterpillar dangles and swings on the thread. Something from death emerges, phrases of song, and the sky was gentle, it knew the whispers and caressed the air. A sign in the caves, under the stone that tightens to the roots / In the sun that closes the powders where the chain rises. The lichens are warm from the night / Near the closed flower of the prickly pear, I wait as long as the bee can wait, waiting for the time it devours on the landslide? Who devours the voices, when to set sail? I wait near the prickly fig tree for the distant black rain. I do not want to force you, time, time that tears us apart on the mirror of the water. There I challenge the caves, I challenge the names, the only man to watch and wait. I know you now, life, where you seem more still, the more you look at me with thoughtful eyes. I know nothing but things beyond the clouds. The bitter pittosporum spares today. I know that I must wait for a word in the high slant where there is no earth or thought. So I sought the terror of the cave that sifted the depths. With a firm horror I looked inside in the darkness on the pits where the mushroom perfumes / Where is the trace that makes me walk? Where is the wind that calls its drops as touches and warnings? The anemones are closed and from the hole the air comes out in gusts, the fireflies await the marriage. The seagull grows higher on the climb / Thus I know and recognize the wind, I am and I have been. Precious are the desires hidden in life / They are like butterflies perched, thus a life slips away. The panthers are shiny in the rain. Meanwhile it rises like a dust cloud from the wind. Life, loved and loved in return, sparkles. I run if the flower is opening, if the flower is open. Yes, I run, among the seagulls’ game, to hear the slaps and rumbles of a superb wind, as of an infamous sea, as from the cave it blows and regurgitates loose plumes. I am alive, it says from the inverted mirror and someone who speaks hears in the thumps feeding butterflies for a brief sun. My spurious benefit stands as it aligns with the sea and sees things reversed behind things, when boats do not venture out on the sea and everything is left without words and without myth, without fear, which comes from man, without peace, softened, without benefit: absence dominates, god dominates. Seagulls rise, flying over and rising upwards, appearing behind trees, related to the sun. Prince who watches, how mute is the mystery and where destiny is not bold. So this stasis seems like thought. The shadows pass slenderly, verify the air, the sky, the homogeneous path, from the veil of the wings the cave regurgitates rocks / The crack opens / The rock is covered with sea, the treasure is fertilized in possession. Leave me, leave me light in the space where destiny wanders. Because here I am at the vigorous sea only presence / The absence unfolds and defends in the breath and in its splash and the splash is now connected to the sun and speaks – In vain I have listened to ferocious waves / I have followed the golden paths that trace and say (affirm) to the sky. He affirms more seriously and the light bathes the spray. The prince lives again, in the hot sun, like an animal without a goal on this island without people. Imperious he advances and grabs like a lion. If I were to discover a god, flushed out with the hook, a mollusc god, I would return like a snake there in the cave. While the stone speaks and creaks at the step, howls and knows the sea with thick borders and the song is ferocious between the barking of the seagulls and the deep rustle and the clarinet of the songbird. And the signs do not read when the flower is cold and closed. Touch me, Isis, in the remote corner on the pre