Giannina Braschi - Yo-Yo Boing!

— No, she took it from Rosebud, Rosebud, the sled in Citizen Kane . What Orson Welles had lost was a sled — his childhood — in a big Bonfire of the Vanities .

— The fire, the bonfire — I still see it — it is burning in flames my eyes. Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night, what immortal hand, or sight, build thy fearful symmetry.

— Oh, be drunk, be always drunk.

— Yes, be always drunk with fire.

— Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of a night.

— I see him coming.

— Fire, Mona, fire.

— Reflecting light upon the table as the glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, from satin cases poured in rich profusion, in vials of ivory and colored glass unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, unguent, powdered, or liquid — troubled, confused and drowned the sense in odors, stirred by the air that freshened from the window.

— Yes, crack a window — it’s stuffocating. The air is not going through the chimney. Start a fire. Wood, wood. It’s Christmas.

— Well, she stole my diary. That was written in my diary. And down we went in the mountains, there, were you feel free.

— And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight.

— He said, Mona, Mona, hold on tight. And down we went, in the mountains, there where you feel free. I have never experienced that wild freedom of death again. Sometimes, like now, the fire burned like a tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night.

— Mona, look at my new glasses.

— Spectacular. Put them on.

— I am seeing the tygers burning bright.

— Wear them, you’ll experience ants tyghding back your sight.

— Cushions, give me cushions. I need comfort. I need to feel cozy, mushy, like in my bed. I want to go, down the mountain, with her, in her sled, there where you feel free.

— Come here, I’ll lend you mushy cushions. You’ll feel the comfort with me.

— These ascended in fattening the prolonged candle-flames, flung their smoke into the Laquearia, stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.

— I still prefer this painting of Mama Mona. The setting of the stage. The candles burning. The tygers, tygers, running wild, in the forest of the child. Laquearia, unguent, smoke, in rich profusion.

— I am burning, it’s too hot. Crack another window.

— I fell deep into sleep. The comfort burning bright in the forest of the night.

— Where am I?

— Here, in Mona’s house. You’re just drunk.

— Be drunk, be always drunk. And if sometimes, on the stairs of a palace, or on the green side of a ditch, or on the dreary solitude of our room, you should awaken and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped away from you, ask of the wind, or of the wave, or of the star, or of the bird, or of the clock, of whatever flies, or sighs, or rocks, or sings, or speaks.

— I ate too much. The turkey wings are starting to flutter inside my belly. I’m stuffed. I can’t budge from this chair. I’m falling asleep.

— My head is spinning. In a rollercoaster. Down and up the Russian mountain, there, in the amusement park, where you feel free.

— Mona, Mona, hold on tight. And down we went, again, against the mountains and the cushions, against the death, there.

Oed’ und leer das Meer.

There, in the mountains.

— There, again, the record’s scratched.

— There, again, in the mountains.

Oed’ und leer das Meer.

— What does it mean?

— Where you feel freeeee.

— I didn’t know she spoke German.

— She butchers it.

— She knows more than you.

— How can you say Paco Pepe doesn’t know German if he is a philosopher? He did his doctoral dissertation on Nietzsche.

— How’s his accent?

— Undetectable.

— Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

— What does that mean?

— I already told you: there, where you feel free. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee.

— Did you see a lot of things?

— Yes, thank you very much, many bright things whirling, wild and open in a rollercoaster.

— With a shower of rain, we stopped in the colonnade.

— I never liked Eliot. So unsensual, unappealing, repressed. I mean, being in the closet is all right, if you come out, someday. But he never came out. And then he wrote:

Burning burning burning burning

O Lord Thou pluckest me out

O Lord Thou pluckest

Burning

He really was burned — repressed — and that’s why he says: O Lord, Thou pluckest me out.

— What does pluckest mean?

— O Lord, why are you plucking me? He plucked religion because the Lord plucked him. His sexual desire was so repressed that the Lord plucked all of his plumes. Plucking a poet’s plumes is like plucking a vampire’s fangs. Or a witch’s broomstick.

— I would have never written:

— Do I dare to eat a peach? Shall I part my hair in the middle?

I would have eaten the peach. I have eaten plenty. And why is it so difficult to part your hair in the middle? Nervous nellie, scaredy-cat, pussy cat.

— O Lord thou pluckest meeoowt.

— Meowt. O Lord thou pluckest meeoowt. O Lord, you’re plucking me out of the closet.

— She doesn’t understand anything. She’s like my aunt. I asked her what “son of a bitch” meant.

— Son of a beach, she explained, are Americans whores who come to Puerto Rico and have sex on the beach, and their bastards are called son of a beach.

— Now, I really understand. I’m really plucking the meanings like daisy petals.

he loves me, he loves me not

he loves me, he loves me

— O Lord Thou pluckest me out.

Burning burning burning burning

— I figured it all out. I seduced Jabalí with this poem. With it, I’m now going to conquer the world. You see, want some more? Well, help yourself. How many orgasms does it take to make you happy? What they usually do is excite your desire and your longings. If I had it once, I want to have it a thousandfold. More, more, more — you have to give more, more infinitely more, more to a thousand platitudes, nothing is there where more is, except your desire to give more, or a greedy, greedy feeling, that can never stop, once it emerges, a little bit, a tiny-weenie little bit, it starts complaining and whining, it becomes unbearable, you don’t know what you want, but you certainly know you want more, more, more. I know what I want. I want more, more, more.

— A quarter to the left, first panel, a quarter to the left, 2nd panel, a quarter to the left, 3rd panel, a quarter to the left 4th panel. And then, all of them at the same time, a quarter to the right. And there you have it: musical fugue.

Frisch weht der Wind

Der Heimat zu

Mein irisch Kind,

Wo weilest du?

— You speak German too? I’m impressed.

— Nah, I memorized it. The first time I heard it, it felt like a tempest, and I walked naked through the midst of the storm. This poem will be part of my life. I closed my eyes and memorized it, recovering my desires and long lost past.

Wandering solitudes resting on my breast

Dolls posing on my palms

Dancing are the dead,

Singing beautiful psalms.

The dead, those friends of mine who wrote on yellow pages. Meaningful words that make you understand the magic words:

Abracadabra. Open sesame.

Keep your mouth shut if you don’t know what you’re talking about. And don’t cross the street if the light is red. But how can I remain silent saying what I feel even though the feeling I give may be different to what I wish it had and to what people say it has. I keep telling myself: I’m not mad. I’m lucid. To hell with the truth. A fit of despair could drive a person to shoot himself. Or fall into Jabalí’s traps.