Oct 1:
memo:
(I bought an antique typewriter, and carried it home in its teal jacket.
The man who sold it to me wants me to return with the things that I write.
His name is Abel, he has been in the same aisle of antiques for over 20 years.
I am beginning to learn the clumsy weight of my fingers, and how much intention it takes to spell anything correctly.
I wonder if our bodies remember the shape of the words.
What if our hands move in sleep?
What if we had the capacity to remember anything we've said?
The cities inside us might fall. The cities inside us might rise to dance.)
-----
THE FUNCTION OF IT
The man threaded the ink for me.
I suppressed my various liquids
—to gesture instead—
his language at him.
Though,
what is it
to function?
To gesture at the chair,
and to pretend it is a thing only to sit on.
To hang the dead instruments from the rafters like meat,
to forget the inherited,
all of this
takes exquisite practice.
The antiquity that keeps passing, passing.
The value already enough to make you weep.
The recollected number speaking to our sense of cohesion.
No, no, not loss.
Nothing. Not a thing, this is, not a thing.
----
(En Español)
La Función de Ello.
El hombre enhebró la tinta para mí.
Suprimí mis varios líquidos —hacer gestos en lugar— su idioma a él.
¿Aunque, qué es de funcionar?
Para hacer gestos a la silla, y para fingir que es una cosa de sentarse en solamente.
Para colgar los instrumentos muertos a las vigas como carne,
para olvidarse los heredados,
todo esto toma la práctica exquisita.
La antigüedad que mantiene el paso, pasando.
El valor que ya está bastante para hacerle llora.
El número acordado que habla con nuestro sentido de cohesión. No, no, no es pérdida.
Nada. No es una cosa, esto es, no es una cosa.
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