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The farmer's yellow straw hat holds tight to his last thoughts: the bones of a sparrow in dry grass. I press on the print with yellowed fingers and feel the stiffness of the light around the farmer. Something was about to happen here, but now not even the grass will blink its eyelashes. In the left corner, the windmill on the hill watches the highway bloat with cars. It wraps itself with fog and tries to hide, like the skeleton of a man who died standing up. IVAN ARGUELLES ode to theodore aubanel few of us there are who really fit the magnesium shirt while tricking out the styles of the silk worm's nightmare the brothers are at the window with their Parisian blades seriously concerned about our steadfast progress backwards into the race oh provence we shout with a glee that borders on burning oranges oh theodore aubanel with your celluloid fruit brilliant as the august sky of a cubist we swiftly put on an eyelid we investigate the shoulder for disease it's all right we can go ahead despite the incoherent sadness that ravages 17 our trousers arid calcinates our shoes the foot grows deaf with passion and the music of d'indy is dirtied by its own avarice as it begins thumping like a naughty child on the transverse drum of memory it is swell to consider this picasso of incinerated oils and to toss down this slick absinthe and go drunk as a belt into the small flashlight forgetting the important things like learning to die or the absolute condition of salt oh what a necktie it is to be in love with the mother of the tango and to sense the infinite sentiment of sleet as the dawn stomps across the harbor flinging aside ¡t> dingy pigeons and fizzled rockets while we happy but blind whistle on a comb the melodies of Ii fiho d'avignoun and reenter the convent of the dreaming stone poem what happens is wo are fatigued that it took so much effort to pull the k>dy out of the shoo to wrench the eyelid from its seam and now the hysterical inch of sky strains as we try to shove our souls into it is this what it moans to struggle? the sea's false gold surface bangs to attention the minute we ply it with the body's oar and the wingless swans of a madman's fantasy grow enraged Ix-cause we still use our hands if only to plow our way through the densest of dreams rooking drunkenly in beds of distressed rye our tin violins balanced on the chin our throats dusty with the virtuosity of salvation as if sainthood with its string of christmas lights and its severed tits were a song to learn or a palm to beat until the disguise of the wasted buddha spent like cash in the americaii fur storms renders even the weeds of the five year plan into resplendent skyscrapers of chic metal whose darkening miles fit our notion of time 18 d'annunzio let's hear it for gabriele d'annunzio that gay blade from the fever smitten silk of italy who invented the stop-watch in order to prove state capitalism could work but who in truth was the movie star of his own dream in life-size boots with a sabre of snow and the kind of eyes that could lift a mountain women werent enough for him the virgin mary in a nutshell that's what he needed sparking the rhetorical roman sky with a fuse powerful enough to detonate the phone system all of it who doesnt recall how he created an automobile run on sexual energy oh how in an electric suit he imitated the papal zipper dancing backwards all the way down the via appia? what a guy you cant imagine the poems he wrote like verses of tufa and sandstone meant to waft into the horizon like ether and his sense of history that isolated and elevated his peninsula on its own barge of diaphane lilies he had nerves of blood and could out race the swiftest...


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pp. 17-21
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