Three Poems

Metamorphoses

Like a film needing 24 frames per second for the image to stay intact on the screen and within viewing range, perhaps humans are actually super accelerated repetitions of themselves, sustained in their own appearance and visibility at a proportion of 100 frames per billionth of a second. So, for example, that young man going through the nightclub doors with an explosive vest underneath his black sweater, and that pale waitress behind the counter of an airport café waiting anxiously for her boyfriend's mother to approach, fussing over her bag, from which she pulls out a 9-millimeter pistol, continues to be nothing more than that pale waitress behind the counter of an airport café waiting anxiously for her boyfriend's mother to approach, fussing over her bag, from which she pulls out a 9-millimeter pistol, all in one smooth uninterrupted movement. Or almost. Because just as deviation or sabotage in a single photogram of the 24 that glide merrily or solemnly across the full length of the wretched cinematographic second, would not successfully alter the image as we see it on screen, given the precarious nature of the human eye in its ability to perceive deviation, the possible metamorphosis of that young man in a black sweater exploding inside the nightclub, or of the pale waitress behind the counter with her chest perforated by a 9-millimeter bullet, and even considering the possibility of an extremely odd metamorphosis, such as into an ox, tapir, or baby Rabindranath Tagore, given that this would be limited to a single frame amongst the 100 others of that billionth of a second, it would not be captured by our precarious retinal system, and we would actually succeed only in seeing the phenomenal and enviable continuity of the young man's black sweater amongst the ruins of the nightclub, and people collected by the police and transported to the windswept pavement, and the piercing on the lip of the pale waitress, fallen behind the counter onto a small pool of blood. In a concert in homage to Witold Lutoslawski, however, the boxing angel was able to see several metamorphoses of the pianist Martha Argerich, into a black deer, a winter's day, dregs of wine, golden rain, and countless other prodigies, metamorphoses each lasting less than even a billionth of a nanosecond, permitting, for the rest of the audience, that beautiful, long-haired figure at the piano to continue for the entire duration of the packed-out show, to be the renowned Argentine pianist Martha Argerich.

The tube

Part One: Paradise

It was when the light came backand we saw the faceof the girl who'd been shooting upby the Aterro wall,blotched T-shirt,dirty syringe."No poemis more difficultthan its era,"you saidinto my earand I didn't knowif you were talking abouther or about the bookgoing from your handsinto the pocketof your jacket.In the distance,we could seeRasa Island,we put on our sneakersand continuedwithout obstaclestowards the shore.

Part Two: Purgatory

I said:could you possiblyplease answer againthat question I asked you?I said: lets make the mostof this cold, sweet sun,piercing the clouds, this good walkto the car park,and talk moreabout that thing?I did understandwhat you said,but later, I gotdistracted. I wasdistracted with something,I don't know whatexactly, perhapsthe courage of thosewomen under thewaterfall explodingso very colddown the rocksor what was being shoutedby those womenunder the waterfall explodingso very colddown the rocks,maybe the lizardswere startled,and bolted off, terrifiedup the rocks,into the thickness.I said: the lizardschanged color.the fact is,I wanted to ask youplease could you repeatwhat you said to me.could you possiblyrepeat it? I said:sometimes I dream abouta big accident.and sometimes I dreamabout atoms joining togetherto generate that thingwe could callthe...