Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

Everything is yellow because everything is red because it has lightning and puppies and because it has a sky, a stork, and a penguin. Everything is black because it’s yellow because the cloud bursts and because rain falls because you laugh and because you lust and groan and own a violin and a trumpet and a king and a crown and a prince and a courtier and a harlot and a bastard and a water boy and a tit and dick and a nose and a mouth and a tongue and a day and a ray of sunshine and a cold night and a rascal and a knave and a waif and a brat and a scrag and a goalie and a fried egg and a pygmy and a tapster and a preacher and a king and a smile and a happy face and a world full of joy. Everything is yellow and everything is noisy because it’s silence and it’s orgy and because it’s lightning and morning and sunrise and fall and spring and summer and squall.

The world is a billiard ball. It’s the egg and the yolk, and it’s the reign of the pawn and the court of the king. The world is the courtier and the harlot and the bastard and the pygmy and the grasshopper and the butterfly and the river and the morning. This town crier and the mother with her puppy and the brewer and that town crier and one moment please and do-re-mi-fa-so and a chorus of ghosts and the song of the nightingale and the miss and the mister and yesterday and today and whatever lies ahead. And a fuckit and a dammit and a dwarf and a giant and a tit and a dick and a lip and a nose and an apple and a hand and a leg and two ears and my mouth and my tooth and tongue.

This is different. Here is a question. Here is a sky. An ostrich. A corpse. The world is round. Eyes are round. Round is the busybody, and round is the knave. Round is the ostrich egg. Round is the millet grain. Round is the soccer ball. Round is the sun’s yolk. Round is the bastard’s insult. Round is the brewer’s malt. Round is the drunkard’s tavern. Round is the waif, and round is the rascal too. Round is the whore. Man is so round, and so round is the sky that seems like a bunny and seems like a ball. Seems like a fried egg and seems like a dead dog barking at the infinite. It’s an aniseed. It’s the prophet of centuries, and it’s the centaur too. It’s a boy galloping on horseback. It’s the king of infinite space. It’s the round egg.

Eggs are months and days too. The roundest day is an egg. The tip of your nose looks like an egg. And mouth is egg. And tongues suck eggs. And balls too. And apples lay eggs. And seeds too. And roots are eggs. And seas too. The sky. The puppy. And the stepmother is an egg. Fried chicken is egg. And fire is egg. And what is rotten is egg. The plague plagues like eggs. And life tastes like eggs. A boy is an egg, a fried chicken. His mother is a hen. And his stepfather, a cock. If cock plus hen equals ostrich egg, then cock equals cuckold. And crest equals cock. The snail hides his head in an eggshell. I need a house like the head of a cock. I need a hood and a hut and a shack and a shanty and a shell where I can incubate all the eggs of the world. The world is a fried egg. And a rotten egg too. And it’s yolk. And it’s piss. And it’s the world because it smells and lives within the egg and the day tastes like an egg and even a star is somewhat like an egg. And I am egg and always will be, and we are eggs and always will be. Fried eggs. Or rotten eggs. Boiled eggs. Or scrambled eggs. Poached eggs. Or round eggs. Eggs. Eggs. Eggs.

Listen how they fly, they seem, seem, they are, are, and they are not, and they are, are sexes and beings and they are, are the same, a bird, a thunder, a storm. And they are, look, there they are, in the sky, in the jungle, at home, on earth, in death, in life. And they fly and revive, they are born and they sleep, they awaken, with wings, and they walk and bark and growl, and they get angry and lose patience and make up, or they go and get drunk or look or laugh or walk. And they are frightened and furious, or they get undressed, and love, and sex, and sexes, and creatures and men and beasts and males and females. A sex, an adventure, and a monkey or a zebra, and a day or a bonfire, and a wound or a death.

The world is invaded by sexes and beings. The world is an orgy of pleasure. The world is robust and healthy, and fat, fat are the males and females, the zebras and ducks. Animals are pregnant with sexes, and women are milking their sexes and tits and breasts and bushes and springs and fountains and forests and groves and growls and meows and howls and bells and sex, and sex is trembling from pleasure and orgasm. Everything is orgasm and bacchanal and orgy. Ape and apple, rhinoceros and pear, jungle, crossbow, wild boar and unicorn, and trumpet, and rifle and ray and rainbow, and sea, and sun and moon, and the primitive dance of SEX.

The world is a blank. It’s a slate or a chalk. It’s a snake. Or it’s the ostrich. Or the iguana. Or heaven. Or Mont Blanc. Or the sun that looks like a zebra. It’s a great big Z. It’s a giant giraffe. It’s the word and it explodes. Bursts. It’s not the mountain. It’s not hope. There is an X that doesn’t multiply. There is a zebra with stripes. (=), no, it isn’t =. It’s minus X or it’s minus Zebra. And the Z is a hat. And there’s a kangaroo that curses. A nasty word, really nasty. I prefer lies. To lie is to laugh. To curse is to spit. I feel the saliva. It’s the zebra element multiplied in a swamp. It produces a panther. A Bengal tiger. Or a leopard. Yellow. Orange. Brown. Or white. Somewhat ferocious. Fierce means wrinkling your nose. And shockin’em. Shakin’em up. And laughing. And making faces. And scarin’em. Sticking out your tongue. Really long. A gag. A funny face. A sharpener.

The world is a dollhouse. A purse full of surprises. A lock. A prisoner. A princess. An animal. A savage cry. And a flower, or a mushroom. An aniseed. A brave, brave wave rises like a flock of sheep. And it’s an army, and it’s a war, and a cook, and a barber. It rises seething and mad like a poisonous snake, like a rabid sow, and it’s a poor puppy or a calf. The cow looks like a tit. Muscles or veins are snakes or whales. The kangaroo is in a hurry. A hurry-scurry. The hyena’s little kid looks like a flying ant. And the car stops. And the singer does her makeup and gets dressed. The policeman speaks. And the witch goes into the cauldron. She has many tails, many eyes, many ears, many noses. You stink like a slimy tadpole, you jackass, jerkoff, lizard. Don’t insult him yet. We’re at the beginning of the month. And we still have a year to go. Being born, that’s as easy as laying an egg. The hard part is mating and growing.

I’ve just turned life into a proverb. I’ve just killed it. So that I may advise you. Mind your own business. Hatch eggs and bear pups. Hang out in bars and get drunk. Walk backward and you’ll regret it, you’ll really regret it. Don’t stop at corners, stop midway. Men are better off when they’re done with their booze and whores. Then they cry. And horses neigh. Dogs bark. And the moon vacations in Alaska. Snow is not white. A rainbow is blasphemy writ large. Twilights never last until dawn. Least of all today. There is an eclipse. The great bear left my city. I’ve just turned myself into a proverb with the stars. A meteor banished me from life. Beware. Night is falling. Be careful, walk on the shady side. A man is not a man until he makes ten mistakes. Then he starts walking and falls. He looks in a mirror and finds himself handsome. Then he discovers that he has ears. And listens. Sometimes he talks. Something worries him. And he knits his brows. Then he gets angry. And shouts. He goes on walking and doesn’t arrive, doesn’t arrive. He never arrives and returns. Life loves him. The sun warms him, burns him. Man yells. It’s life. It’s pain. Just a moment. Walk in the shade. Man was stitching hope. The green thread broke. Well, where is it? Did it show up? Where did it go? It’s not my problem. I don’t care. Don’t hatch eggs. Get ready. Learn. Grow. Understand. Understand. And die.