You are become (swathed in the gossamer caccoon of my desire for you) the aching of all otherness. You are a body beyond the frontiers of my body. You are a continent drifting. You are a country on the other side of the world. Who discovers you? Did I? Or will you find me, claim me? Will you name me for your king, your patron, your once beloved, the city where you were born?…
Dubbing me thus, is it only a matter of time--moments, years, centuries--before you control me. Draining my resources, you will in time eclipse my culture. The vultures of language are already pecking at my tongue. And you will erase the memory of the land. The seeds of your home have come--on woolen blanket and leather sole--as strange species to invade me. I see the vining intruder, that smell, the suffocating green. It is coming through the gates, down the streets of the city, choking fountains and monuments, the statues of the dead…
You are impatient. Such empires fall.
There is no worry, no anxiety. History spins its intricate fragility. I know I will stem this invasion. Before your ships exhibit their flags and align their cannons with my horizon, I will arrive there where you are. I will colonize you. I will give you these intentions. I will name you for myself. I will draw lines on paper to represent you, to represent me. And longitudes and attitudes will in the end create histories, mythologies, obligations and lies. You are the holy land, the promised land; you are the evidence of some lost Eden, impossible to remember, impossible to forget.
And I watch you--abstracted at your computer, from the second story window in the yard pacing with your cellphone, even in the throes of the ecstatic moment when (perhaps) you become aware of me and smile--your skins are always rippling with expressions. The surface of the Earth, the surface of the ocean, the surface of you that fills the low lands, that covers the highlands. You are the ragged vapor that knows this geography. I have studied these maps. But I am (still) an outlander. These maps mean nothing.
Dubbing me thus, is it only a matter of time--moments, years, centuries--before you control me. Draining my resources, you will in time eclipse my culture. The vultures of language are already pecking at my tongue. And you will erase the memory of the land. The seeds of your home have come--on woolen blanket and leather sole--as strange species to invade me. I see the vining intruder, that smell, the suffocating green. It is coming through the gates, down the streets of the city, choking fountains and monuments, the statues of the dead…
You are impatient. Such empires fall.
There is no worry, no anxiety. History spins its intricate fragility. I know I will stem this invasion. Before your ships exhibit their flags and align their cannons with my horizon, I will arrive there where you are. I will colonize you. I will give you these intentions. I will name you for myself. I will draw lines on paper to represent you, to represent me. And longitudes and attitudes will in the end create histories, mythologies, obligations and lies. You are the holy land, the promised land; you are the evidence of some lost Eden, impossible to remember, impossible to forget.
And I watch you--abstracted at your computer, from the second story window in the yard pacing with your cellphone, even in the throes of the ecstatic moment when (perhaps) you become aware of me and smile--your skins are always rippling with expressions. The surface of the Earth, the surface of the ocean, the surface of you that fills the low lands, that covers the highlands. You are the ragged vapor that knows this geography. I have studied these maps. But I am (still) an outlander. These maps mean nothing.
--
Of all the aching impossibilities that contend in you, the questions you divest of meaning with a shrug, which of the answers would be (for me) most painful? Which will keep me up nights, alone, with only the figments I have found of you? This haunting. Old photographs remind me of the generations of you that I have waited through. Apocalyptic, inevitable, like a prophet, or a dictator, you arrive. Still wet from the sweat and oil, the purloined pearls of dozens upon dozens of your ancestors' cum, you shiver like a baby. Then slapped on your two cups of ass, finding your breath, your compass, you begin to cry. You defend yourself with a smile. Now everything I have said risks punishment for defamation. Who would believe me after falling face first into the icy entitlement of your green eyes?
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