Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

Explain yourself in a better mood. Just because you’re young flesh and I’m frontal to my death. Why must I continue surviving and breathing for the rest of my life? When will I die without my breath stinking of immortality? Oh, come on, nobody is immortal nowadays. We continue living without possessing our lives — in mutiny — in futility — unmotivated by the immobility of immutability — invalidated by a certificate of mortality, immobility, immortability, tranquility, morbality, morbidity, mortability — we’re morbidly mortal before the tomb, rest in peace before time has passed for us to repose in lazy peace for the rest of our dying days before our clothes stink of the mortuary — and bring life to its feet, topless — we cry and sing.

Here, in silence, surrounded by stages to mount upon mount upon mount and climbing each step of a stair with cautious eyes to look around, upon a stair, I sigh, and look down there, where the subway runs and returns, and there is a noise that noises my nose, I take out my handkerchief, and of course, of course, of course, in the blank verse I blow my nose, hard and loud. I blow it out of proportions, out of dimensions and proportions — tiny and gigantic, certainty and certainly, danger and proximity, altitude and dexterity, enterprise of multiple choices — a wrong answer against a right attitude — fortitude of mind behind a window of desire, and perplexity and doubt, upsetting the nervous system of la cage aux fois.

Do it right. Or at least get even. Even if I stress my mind, I stretch my neck and bones crack my other fortitudes, and no one is certainly more certain than doubt and proximity. Even when dancing gets even with drinking and dining — and sleeping pills don’t sleep at all — but sour stress and bags under the eyes, frontal to mirrors and glances — taking buses and subways to come and go and get upset at the boss, not at me, honey, I am just counting the pennies to get back home and prepare your tasty supper.

Develop your argument, see you tomorrow, don’t miss the appointment, the opportunity of a decade, sounds good, honey, but I prefer to do it the right way, shortcut is longcut, if you cut it too short it’s never too long to grow back again, but remember you’ll have to wait, and patience is way off in your calendar. Dividends against multiplications. Cariolets against friendly people — or are you following the book of rules step by step and connoisseurs of wines and dines — and dividends and months and connoisseurs of time — and high-piled papers to fill out — no address, no phone number, no multiple choices, no way out against orders, responsibilities piling up, filling blank checks and multiplying dozens by thousands before falling asleep in the coma of retirement, golden age of sorrow and no return to the truths and blues of morrow, I pay homage to the dead, and return to my pile of work, paperwork, waste of time for the rest of my junkie life.

I open my eyes and I see, but I have seen so many times that I don’t see the way I saw love, blue of eyes, blinded, blindfolded, the first of times. I see love interested in how old are you, can you take care of me when I am old, I’m growing weary, will you feed me — so love is not blind madness — to be blind as love is blind is to be mad as love is mad and mad is blind — and love is mad if it follows the pattern of your life. I can assure you he is blindfolded, Cupid is mad, mad of love for you, he wants you to love calculating each step you take, and then you lose your chance, and you only live twice.

Can you finish your thoughts in a roundabout way? How can I play a fair game? Clear of gasses after red meat. Clear of thoughts that come to pass so full of paradigms and stratagems. So bloated and inflated with presuppositions and impositions from the dignitaries of discipline. Mandatories of embassies — always sending us messages — for avoiding troubles — when they come with the troubles they send to avoid newest buildings of monumental troubles and sorrows. I blew the horn to survive, and I blew the whistle to make it shine, and merried myself while shining the silver — and then I stopped believing in silver — and changed my money to wine. I jumped the horses of moneys I got and troubled my monkeys with horses of blue. Velvet blue and malgre tout, I love you, my cherie. Où sont nos amoureuses? Elles sont au tombeau! Oh, please, get me free of meee. Free of taxes and free of impossibilities and free of presuppositions and free of impositions and free of preposteritions and free of prepositions and suspicions and ammunitions and recognitions. I feel free from freedom, free from the statue of freedom, enslave me in a statue of freedom, my kingdom is a cry to freedom, you didn’t get it right, freedom, I want to enslave my freedom, with freedom, free alone is better with freedom than alone with freedom, and without freedom alone there is no freedom alone. I am not alone free.

Where are the stinky feet I am missing here? If I smell a stinky soaking sock and I suck and suck the smell that sucks these stinky sucking wet sucks that stink the socks of the smell I suck. I tell you, it’s rotten stinky. It sucks my blood, and it stinks of rot, it rots my stink, and it stinks my feet with stinky soaking wet socks, it’s dry and soaking wet, but if you soak it while you dry it, it sucks while its stinky smelly feet soaking wet become dry and hot at the same time, and it’s stinky, soaking wet. Sucks. Sucks and sucks.

Have you thought about me lately? Thought about you. Or suck about you. Suck the smelling stinky thoughts are soaking wet while drying — fumes — the smelling stinky thoughts, away, the dry and stinky smells of earth, of paradigms and concubines and clementines — and tangerines and rice ’n beans — breezes — smiling teases — stinkies are mine — yours are fine — breezes fallen from the tomb to nothing — stinkies are mine.

How did I perform?

— Didn’t you hear them laughing? I had to keep pausing. They were always laughing. And the ones who laughed hardest were the students. I enjoy performing for the masses.

— Students are not the masses.

— They know what’s in and what’s out. Youths are closer to life because they’re not frustrated by their jobs and their children. They still have hopes of becoming something. Art is hope.

— Art is history. If you don’t remember, you don’t have a past.

— Who wants the past? I want the future.

— And when you grow old, what will you have?

— More past than future. But now I have more future than past.

— Future is an illusion. A bubble.

— Bubbles are nice.

— Youth understands nothing worth understanding. It took me years to understand James Joyce. I understood his youth only when I became younger and lighter with age. The older generation should understand me better if they became younger like me. Were their parents serious?

— They were laughing too.

— I should have picked a profound piece.

— Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

— It was too complicated. The language barrier. Plus I was dressed in gray silk. I should have worn wool solids. And I should have slept before the performance. To be fresh. To get inside the character. The audience distracted me. Who invited Cenci to the reading? Did you see what he was doing?

— Next time I’ll tell him to leave the room.

— Shuffling his feet to distract me.

— He’s got no class. Next time I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine.

— And Olmo-Olmo, did you see what he did?

— I was minding my own character.

— Arms crossed, he flared his nostrils when they clapped. I have never done that to anyone. Envy, pure envy.