on, look at me. No, I mean it. Climb up on this window, use both hands, don’t be afraid. What’s the worst thing I could do to you that you’re not already doing to yourself?
So? Nice, isn’t it? Aesthetically pleasing. Have you ever seen such grafting? Such a curse? Halfwriter, half desk? Well, there you have it. You can get down now.
Finita la tragedia
. What do you say? It’s quite a thing, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you there was nothing as pleasurable as other people’s hell?
TOWN CHRONICLER: Your son once lay in that cradle.
CENTAUR: And now he has a different one.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Help me, Centaur. Those piles of yours are driving me mad.
CENTAUR: I’ll never leave this place.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Thirteen years ago I lost my daughter.
CENTAUR: These last few days, when you were being a real pain in the ass, I was beginning to think it might be something like that.
TOWN CHRONICLER: I can’t talk about her.
CENTAUR:
I built the cradle
with my own two hands. The day
he was born, from branches of oak. My wife
painted the two ducks.
She painted so beautifully.
She was a quiet,
gentle woman. She left me,
three years after
the boy did. If I could have,
I would have left me, too.
Adam—that was his name.
Adam. I placed him
in the cradle
after he was born. He lay there
with his eyes open, looked
at me, studied me with his gaze.
He was so serious! He always was,
his whole life. His whole
short life. Serious
and slightly lonely. Hardly
any friends. He liked stories.
We used to put on plays,
he and I,
with costumes and masks. You asked
about the cradle. My wife padded it
with soft fabric,
but he could only fall asleep
with me, on my chest. He would cling
to me.
I just remembered, you’ll laugh,
but there was a special sound
I used to make to put him
to sleep on me. A sort of quiet,
deep, trembling
moan.
Hmmmm …
Hmmmm …
TOWN CHRONICLER: Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I also …
CENTAUR: Not at all …
Hmmm …
TOWN CHRONICLER:
Hmmm …
CENTAUR and TOWN CHRONICLER:
Hmmm …
WALKING MAN:
Walking, walking,
neither awake nor
asleep, walking
and emptying
all my thoughts,
my passions,
my sadness, my fervor,
my secrets, my volition,
anything that is me.
Look at me, my son:
here I am not.
I am but a platform of life,
calling you to come
and be through me—
to occur, if only for a moment,
to once again be purified
by what is.
Come, do not hesitate,
be now,
I am gone,
the house is yours,
and it is furnished with every limb.
Flow into it, pool in it,
this blood is your blood now, the muscles,
your muscles. Come,
be present,
reach your arms
from world-end to -end,
rejoice from my throat, laugh, vibrate,
celebrate,
all is possible at this moment,
everything now is
yes
,
so love and burn and lust
and fuck.
My five hungry senses
are at your command like
five horses foaming at the mouth,
stomping, raring
to gallop to your never-end.
Do not stop, my boy,
your time is short, meted out,
my eyelids are trembling now,
soon I will come home,
soon my pupils will contract
in the light of confining logic. Quick,
taste it all, devour, be deep,
be sad,
determined, delighted, roar,
tremble with pleasure and power,
my pleasure is yours, my power, too—
enchant, shower your soul,
be the swing of a sower,
a cascade of grain and
golden coins streaming
like light—
be engorged like an udder,
and torrid as midday,
and rage, and rave,
tighten your hand into a fist until
arteries swell in your neck,
and be thrilled, like a heart, like a girl,
be agape, thin-skinned, alight
with the glory of
one-off wonders,
be a whole,
momentary fraction
of eternity.
And as you do so, pause suddenly, breathe, inhale, feel the air burn your lungs, lick your upper lip, taste the salt of healthy sweat, the tingle of life, and now say fully:
I—
(Damn it, I realize now:
that pronoun is also
lost, it died
with you, leaving me
with
So? Nice, isn’t it? Aesthetically pleasing. Have you ever seen such grafting? Such a curse? Halfwriter, half desk? Well, there you have it. You can get down now.
Finita la tragedia
. What do you say? It’s quite a thing, isn’t it? Didn’t I tell you there was nothing as pleasurable as other people’s hell?
TOWN CHRONICLER: Your son once lay in that cradle.
CENTAUR: And now he has a different one.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Help me, Centaur. Those piles of yours are driving me mad.
CENTAUR: I’ll never leave this place.
TOWN CHRONICLER: Thirteen years ago I lost my daughter.
CENTAUR: These last few days, when you were being a real pain in the ass, I was beginning to think it might be something like that.
TOWN CHRONICLER: I can’t talk about her.
CENTAUR:
I built the cradle
with my own two hands. The day
he was born, from branches of oak. My wife
painted the two ducks.
She painted so beautifully.
She was a quiet,
gentle woman. She left me,
three years after
the boy did. If I could have,
I would have left me, too.
Adam—that was his name.
Adam. I placed him
in the cradle
after he was born. He lay there
with his eyes open, looked
at me, studied me with his gaze.
He was so serious! He always was,
his whole life. His whole
short life. Serious
and slightly lonely. Hardly
any friends. He liked stories.
We used to put on plays,
he and I,
with costumes and masks. You asked
about the cradle. My wife padded it
with soft fabric,
but he could only fall asleep
with me, on my chest. He would cling
to me.
I just remembered, you’ll laugh,
but there was a special sound
I used to make to put him
to sleep on me. A sort of quiet,
deep, trembling
moan.
Hmmmm …
Hmmmm …
TOWN CHRONICLER: Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I also …
CENTAUR: Not at all …
Hmmm …
TOWN CHRONICLER:
Hmmm …
CENTAUR and TOWN CHRONICLER:
Hmmm …
WALKING MAN:
Walking, walking,
neither awake nor
asleep, walking
and emptying
all my thoughts,
my passions,
my sadness, my fervor,
my secrets, my volition,
anything that is me.
Look at me, my son:
here I am not.
I am but a platform of life,
calling you to come
and be through me—
to occur, if only for a moment,
to once again be purified
by what is.
Come, do not hesitate,
be now,
I am gone,
the house is yours,
and it is furnished with every limb.
Flow into it, pool in it,
this blood is your blood now, the muscles,
your muscles. Come,
be present,
reach your arms
from world-end to -end,
rejoice from my throat, laugh, vibrate,
celebrate,
all is possible at this moment,
everything now is
yes
,
so love and burn and lust
and fuck.
My five hungry senses
are at your command like
five horses foaming at the mouth,
stomping, raring
to gallop to your never-end.
Do not stop, my boy,
your time is short, meted out,
my eyelids are trembling now,
soon I will come home,
soon my pupils will contract
in the light of confining logic. Quick,
taste it all, devour, be deep,
be sad,
determined, delighted, roar,
tremble with pleasure and power,
my pleasure is yours, my power, too—
enchant, shower your soul,
be the swing of a sower,
a cascade of grain and
golden coins streaming
like light—
be engorged like an udder,
and torrid as midday,
and rage, and rave,
tighten your hand into a fist until
arteries swell in your neck,
and be thrilled, like a heart, like a girl,
be agape, thin-skinned, alight
with the glory of
one-off wonders,
be a whole,
momentary fraction
of eternity.
And as you do so, pause suddenly, breathe, inhale, feel the air burn your lungs, lick your upper lip, taste the salt of healthy sweat, the tingle of life, and now say fully:
I—
(Damn it, I realize now:
that pronoun is also
lost, it died
with you, leaving me
with
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