Me

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Synoptic Acoustic Synaesthesia

Everything was important. I spat. Nothing could change what I did, only me. So, I gave poems to the wind. I made art that disappeared. I knew people. I got lost. So what?

Avec rien, le vent, le soleil, la langue, l'amour, des femmes, sur, moi-meme, rien.

1984: I read the side columns in the newspapers. I dined with the right wing; I drank with the left. I talked. I did not want to drive a truck through my life. I was watched. My phone was tapped. I was vicarious. I knew what Khomenei wanted. I knew where the money was. I knew who sold what. I made theatre. Finalemente. Ha ha ha. What else could there be?

Skies and trees and animals and bees and fish and whales. Rock and Roll. The World. Magnets. Other lives. Crystals. Stars. And so on.

Once upon a time, I asked questions. No better answers now. How I laughed. Nowhere. OOOOOOh Hooooooh, Hallelujah. I was a soldier and I never died. Then I fought the law. All I knew was the name of Rumpelstiltskin. That was that. Him and Koestler. And how nobody listens to poets until they are dead.

SCENE: The standing up out of the grave. Music. End.