For Aime and Wifredo

when you handed out those little packages of information standing there in the doorway, we looked back and you were gone. the absent face of the deity awaiting paint. we are the punitive architects peddling myth with a free hand. fuel for algebra and synthesis. stingy poker-faced abstractions, the will to linger, to objectify the western sunrise prophets are the littlest of men.

was it drums or strings? i and we are the same. there is no going back, no remembering a reality. “i am,” its clasping hands and nuclear skirt, its calmness within the explosions of the throne room. the without sanity. the without presence, the i am of our motion on that yellow seat. you are the cannibals of the master language. the monstrous shadow hanging around the future, devouring any pretense of history. yes we saw you go to headquarters and beat up the CEOs. you pistol-whipped the pronouns, clubbed the raison d’etre, everything hurling towards the sun.

we would not allow them to make you heroes, to pinpoint your demise, you are futureless and full of answers. full of rocks and chlorophyll. the surreality. Nommo.