yesterday i met a man who makes things out of sheep's wool...he even made a sheep out of its own material.
he showed me his bullet wounds....amazing how pale the skin grows around the wounds...like milk. but hard.
i have been fighting with my typewriter, i think i will name her bessie. i have her ink all over my fingers. she is a stubborn broad. but hearty. girthy. a little bit like a bowl of goulash.
today we passed by hundreds of people selling very small parts of themselves on blankets and tables. wishing i had the courage to do the same.
a small bathtub for salt. or sugar maybe. something granular and delicate.
books made of trains and cigarettes, a tiny window to catch the air.
a bag that talks of invisible walls, naming each one--from the Berlin wall, to The Great Wall of China...the width, and other necessaries.
a man disguised as a dog, who breaks hearts and makes women cry from their papers.
the time it takes her to make a scarf, 20 minutes. the beginning is very difficult, the rest, not so. i have it hung around my neck.
the chickens in the glass, upturned, as if to dance. the floor slippery with them. their noises being made from a toy three hundred feet away.
a small bird in a jukebox that you churn like making noodles. its body nearly small enough to fit through the bars, but not quite. slight starvation would save him. the removal of a wing.
i need to learn to address my rekindled collection of utensils. it must mean something. a preparation. i should make hands to hold them.
***
Shot twice in the Congo
**
The man making a sheep from wools,
Oh I am cold, cold.
Where is the skin?
Oh, the light is nice here,
So I sew
The thread is tearing the sky apart.
The girl, knowing not to cry
For this is it,
The manner of afternoon.
The swift taking of a bath
The marionette sodden
Its feet lifting the sky up.
Always up.
***
(en español)
El hombre que hace una oveja de lanas,
Ah tengo frío
¿Dónde está la piel
Ah, la luz es agradable aquí,
Así que yo coso
El hilo se raga el cielo.
La chica, que sabe no llorar
Porque esto es
La manera de la tarde.
El tomar rápido de un baño
La marioneta empapada
Sus pies que levantan el cielo arriba.
Siempre arriba.
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