Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

This is the Child Mother of the circus and the earth and the penguin and the big snouts and the flowers and the child whose belly is full of earthworms and lizards and pigtails and lions and panthers and pandas and elephants. The Child Mother had such beautiful children. I bore the earth ten times and the sun twenty more. I bore knaves, barrels, and wine casks. I bore oil and vinegar. And I bore the hot and the cold. She grew like hens. And chirped liked baby birds. And was the ugly duckling. And was the black swan too. The Child Mother is giving birth. Out in the street. Throwing pots, pans, bowls, barrels, and junk on the ground. I throw everything on the ground. I want to feel the noise. I want to smash everything. Blow everything to smithereens. Detonate the machinery of the universe.

I bore it because I had to vomit it all. And I had to piss. I bore it on the ground, in the mud, with my fingernails filled with dirt. And I caught a whiff of urine, and felt that mud and dirt were inside my belly. And my belly button was a well and there was a huge cavern inside and a child walked naked amidst the storm. And I was naked and newly born. And I yelled — screamed and laughed and pissed and wailed. Then there was a wave of dirt. Everything was full of mud and everything was pure and had lice and ticks and bedbugs and middays and peaches and ashes. And peaches and moles were clay. And the bastard and the whore had slaps and had leopards and pomegranates. And I bore it. I wanted to bear it and my belly had ducks and hens. I didn’t think I could bear it. That’s why I puked. And spat. And screamed. And laughed. And slept. And rose. And I was thirsty. And needed bonfires. And needed diapers. And mothers. I had to bear it. And that’s why I pissed. And danced. And gathered the shards of the world and threw them even harder against the ground, and heard them fall. And I exploded. Exploded. Exploded.

I haven’t finished saying it, and I haven’t finished living, or spitting, or pissing either. A knickknack could be full of me, but if it lacks some little tick or tack, it won’t be a knickknack. And so the train moves on the rails of my clutter. And there aren’t any diapers or kerchiefs that are umbrellas, that can suddenly stop a rainbow. And sometimes a fire kindles without the rubbing of two stones. And sometimes it starts without the striking of a match. And other times I find myself alone again, thinking. Never fall in love. Never cry. Piss. And burst. Look underneath the world. Look underneath things. Look at the surface of the lake. Look at the mirror and its reflection. And look at the sun. The meteor. The sky. The puppies. The moon. The she-duck. The he-goat. Wake up naked. Get dressed and undressed. And look. Look a lot. And drink a lot. And if you can fall asleep, sleep. And wake up. And forget it. Forget it. And remember it. And don’t remember and don’t forget it. And look at mountains too. And bark like a dog. And become a dog. And stork and snail and fire and keep things inside you, and keep the sun in mind, and the stars too, and the swings and the seesaws will help you go up and will help you go down too. And up and down.

After morning comes afternoon. And after that the sun sets. The sun sets. And night arrives. And there is a waning moon or a full moon. There are people too, males and females. There are penguins and wineskins and puppies and torrential rains and wise men and fools. There are books, and there are Psalms, and there are Proverbs. There are fishwives who shout. Shout. Shout. They sell dirty pots. And sell reheated soups. And there are wounds. And there are wars. And fireworks. And noises. And men sleep and work. And women sleep. And work. There are trades. Poet. Water boy. Lawyer. Doctor. There are carnivals. Ant there are holidays. There are duels. The duel of the viscount and the abbot. Of water and wine. Of salt and pepper. And of oil and vinegar. There is a river. And there is the bitter sea. And there is black grief. And Solitude is a character. And night is the color of mourning. And morning the color of happiness. And there are giraffes and skyscrapers. And loudspeakers and policemen and elephants. And every night an old man dies. And by dawn a puppy is born. And a grain of sun and an aniseed and a new century. And it so happens that Fridays end. And Saturdays arrive. And Sundays are for going with Papa to the merry-go-round.

I speak of the foolish world and the wise world. And I speak of its mountains and its lakes. I speak of its landscapes and its paintings. Of Rembrandt. Of Brueghel. And of Van Gogh. I also speak of Rimbaud. And of Shakespeare. And of Goethe. And of Dostoevsky and Lorca and Pound and Artaud. I speak of Plato’s daimon. And I speak from Proverbs and Psalms and Prophesies. I speak from Nietzsche. And from Shakespeare. And I speak of the old man and the boy. And I speak from the grain of sun and from the grain of wheat. And I speak with beggars. With blind men. And with paralytics. And knaves. And jesters. And murderers. And monkeys. And chimpanzees. I speak with idiots. And wise men. And I speak with princes. And courtiers. And lawyers. And misanthropes. And I speak with Molière. And I speak with Rabelais. And I speak with food. In my mouth. And above all with banquets. And with the multiplication of bread and fish. And with astronauts. And horoscopes. And fame. And immortality. I speak with the moment. With my eyes open and with my eyes closed. And I always speak of life. And I always speak of death. And I always speak of the wheel of fortune. And I always speak of mankind. And I always speak of life.

I speak and will speak of the world. Of Leonardo da Vinci’s circle of man. And I speak with Michelangelo’s sculptures. And I speak of Beethoven and of Goya’s black paintings. I speak of Picasso’s blue period. And I speak of Guernica. And of the fat women of Rubens. And I speak of drink and of Dionysus and the fauns and the horns of plenty and the fat cows and the lean cows. From the Bible I choose the Book of Job. The Book of Psalms and the Proverbs. And of the wise men I choose Solomon. And of the prostitutes I choose the whore who sells herself on street corners. And I speak of knaves and of King Lear’s fool. I speak of the egg. And of life. I speak of love. And I speak of kindness. And of evil. And I speak of Mephistopheles. And of Satan. And of earthly hell. And of pantheists. And of Deists. And of the Holy Trinity. And of trilogies. And of twins. And of belly buttons. And of earthworms. And of Lombardy. And of hotheads. And of bellies. And of pandas. And of bedbugs. And of roaches. And of human misery. And of human comedy. And of tragedy. And of epics. And of heroes. And of those who died in war. And of tailors. And of boilers. And of nurses. Of cancer, leprosy, and the plague. And of disease. And of death. And of life.

It’s not this or that. But I can’t explain it. Here is the boy with curly hair. Golden locks. With red eyes. And red lips. Small feet. Bare slippers. The minuet. Harlequins, the trumpeter and his nose. Barrels in the wine cellar. Gray sky. The seagull looks like an earthworm. It moves and moves, the sky moves. It moves and moves, the sea moves. It moves and moves, the boy moves. Planes move. Castanets too. And chestnuts crack open. The knave insults the busybody. Just a moment, please. I am the drunkard. What the hell do I care. The bartender looks at him while serving him a beer. It’s the tavern. It’s the dollhouse. It’s the world. It moves and moves, the world moves. Where is the exit? Where the bridge? Where the highway? Where the port? Where the seagull? Where the car? Where the music? I the boy with golden locks. I the telescope lens. I the looking glass. I the EXIT. I the silence. I the outlet. I the door. I death. Wake up. Wake up. It’s late. Wake up. The train. The railroad station. Life. Death. The driver. The road. The river. The bicycle. Death. Life.