- Prefacio
- el amor de nuevo
- Don Ciro
- My foso
- Feliz Navidad, Pasqual !
- El tìo Pascual
- a mi vieja que se fue
- La hoja de iguera
- El debut
- Mi mamà Loka
- Mi perro
- La vigilia de Navidad de Gino
An enormous hot potato comes and goes
from the past to the future
but in the present
nothing!
And it doesn’t waste time.
While it escapes
with a sneer it looks at me
as if it needed me
to survive.
As if I were part
of its mysterious contraption.
As if I were indispensable
for its incomprehensible design.
As if I were its mission
its explosive ignition.
Then
unpredictable
presumptuous and unscrupulous
others come in droves from everywhere
and in the blink of an eye
as if they wanted to give me the evil eye
they yell
“We come from elsewhere!”
They all invade my mind
they make my blood boil everywhere
and they fill my body with cramps.
There is no rhythm
there is no tempo
only a strange dissonant melody.
And so the terror begins,
the discomfort
the dismay!
And the sunset!
At sunset I feel
contorted and withered
crumpled and wet
forgotten even by the garbage.
I miss my wife!
Without here I am very afraid.
She hasn’t been here for a long time
it’s for this that I live alone in the park
waiting for the bitter cold to take me away.
I can’t take anymore
of this terrible absence
and this interminable agony.
So, while a fig tree watches me
and maybe laughs at me
because between my legs
the pee comes out all by itself
and instead of depicting
a parabola
it follows the force of gravity
I begin to walk
like a dry turd
thrown about by the wind here and there
like a dimwit at the mercy of who knows who.
And with my oblivious cross-eyed stare
because during the day
I drank everything I encountered
suspended and on the edge
between complete idiocy and common knowledge
I begin:
who am I?
Where did I come from?
From a burp?
From a sneeze?
From vomit?
From spit?
From a smack or a vineyard?
From a bottle or from a funnel?
And where is she?
I lose my breath
And it remains without oxygen
this body of mine.
But all of this doesn’t last past the moment
in which the sun touches the horizon
and then disappears completely.
I am not one of those nocturnal pacers
back and forth!
I’m certainly not like that fag Hamlet!
In slippers
apron and night-gown
while she makes pastry dough
from the fig tree a leaf comes down
with the smiling face of my wife
with a stare that pierces
that inspires awe
and that looks a lot like my daughter-in-law!
She comes slowly closer in silence
and she holds my hand.
Then all of a sudden her clothes change:
stiletto heels
mini skirt and garter belt
she is dancing the tango alone
then she jumps on me like a flash
and she reels me in with a hook
and with her very adherent suckers
she positions herself in a precise point
below the belly button
but not just below
a little farther down.
She doesn’t waste time
with her long tongue
like a serpent’s
and rough like a cat’s
she covers me like a paintbrush
or a chisel
of Michelangelo
or of Raffaello
she corses through my veins like a syringe shot
she doesn’t leave anything alone.
It seems to me that I become crazy
and I sit up straight like a model.
Like the wind
in a moment
blows away all those other hindered people
that pretend to be sophisticates
and that maybe aren’t even potatoes.
With her all that conflict ends
all that confusion!
That agitation transforms
Into an indescribable emotion
an insatiable excitement!
My heart beats a mile per minute
my saliva runs inside
I turn on everything in me magically
like the opening of the gates of heaven.
Now that I think about it
I don’t think that that woman is my wife.
As soon as she saw me at the doorstep
with her eyebrows furrowed
and her jaw clenched
she was always yelling
She began right from the first labor pain.
And she never wanted to do it!
If I got close to her she yawned
And if something happened
for her it was a kind of anguish
a kind of bray.
Really in this moment
I don’t even remember
where her remains ended up
and I don’t remember anything about the mourning.
And she doesn’t know how to dance
and she has no idea
what that type of clothing is.
That must be the fig tree’s wife.
She comes and then goes
before her husband wakes up.
But every time some part of her
fixes itself in me like tree roots
and sends its lymph up to my nostrils.
So as I watch that last persimmon
which survived the freezing cold
on that tree nearby
so cheerful
so sanguine
so full
so blonde
in the hope that a gust of wind
won’t make it fall on my head
because it’s my only friend and accomplice
I’ll feel completely fulfilled
until tomorrow’s sunset.
Then I fall asleep
but first I think:
“There’ll always be time to kick the bucket later!”