Erasures

You See Corsica

You See Corsica Hyphen from one bondage divides the last face loved. At dawn, the fata morgana illusion of giant horsemen nearMarseilles abolishes the atmosphere. At such moments, any weather at all is unbearable, a posture that cannot touch the ground. At such moments, internal exile crackles with halogen in the bath of neohghts. Ephemeral recurring question at Montsegur: what freedom is not a hyphen of genocide? One could say the same of Masada. The last one left alive is the traitor, the last face to remember. It loves a mushroom. The vase is fire of the wise. Enough to go around if I have stolen yours. The stick-horse in the fallen tree is soon a rug, and what survives interrogates the poor fools, rounds them up into camps, teaches them to sing. I am stealing from myself. Look at Haiti, dancing above a garage. Its posture cannot touch the ground, faut epouser le hasard, the beautiful tropic rising at its center to be killed. I do not want much longer the fall weather nor what will follow. What I could not control I could not bless. Fata morgana foreseen and at the same time outlived is a giant horseman astride a stick-horse. 27 We must endure the rubbish of harmonies again. We must mutilate the tender soul of Port au Prince again. Children, be ephemeral as you can. Answer with halogen. As I with alcohol at Montsegur responded to the twelve tones. When you make a sound, make it the pain bird, mirage out of the ashes. 28 ...