as I disappear, into a pumping muscular heart, that sometimes hurts,
i see masks/ personae ,
shaped by shades of light and dark
on the faces of people.
but the masks, do not haunt me anymore,
they are not inside of me.
they are not outside, either.
the mongol warrior,
(is he Hieronimo, who is mad again ?)
my Godmother, framed by wavy white hair ,
finally in peace with her loneliness,
looking me in the eyes,
with so much love.
the quiet nun,
a young traveller returning to the Amazon
to be closer to the source of vibrant matter
(the desire to be intoxicated with the summer heat,
the flesh, fur, and faeces that ferment earth,
la tierra ,
into worms, luscious eccentric plants)
i sit in the chair and face the male mirror.
and i feel
how the sun and moon dissolve, when you conquer the anxiety of dying.
when you meet it with courage.
unlacing the tight nodes of shit, through the hands of spirit.
we find awareness also there,
in the wavelength of a bodily sensation of
so so paradoxically serene.
the heart pumping, a-syncopated rythms,
the breath swirling bloody particles of dust
in and out the entropic body
of decaying matter "i/us".
gods with anus, worms with superpowers
all desiring to transcend through the interstellar corridors of
you go there, to the core, and you wait.
beyond the core, you kind of meet the becoming matter-self
as a vanishing conduit,
that when intoxicated,
suddenly discovers it won't be here everyday
it never was, every day.
i met him, finally,
the one who has died.
now I understand what Eliot says:
"we die with the dying: see, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them."
why shall i look for an intersubjective safety wood-nest
if it will never be here?
why not just surrender down the cliff?
"be still and let the dark come upon you.