Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

I’m really sorry, folks, but the shepherds are also farting in New York. I’m sorry. But they’re disgusting. And the cops are pigs too. And they’re farting too. And they’re competing to see who can fart the loudest. So there’s fart traffic. And burps. Traffic of bulls and cows and ambrosia and water. And bulls are pissing on buildings. And cows are shitting in shops. And all the shops are filled with shepherds. And all the mannequins are shepherds. I’m really sorry, folks, but the shepherds are disgusting. Filth. Filth. Everything is filthy. Everything is disgusting. Everything is full of caca. Cow caca. Worm caca. Lizard caca. Santa Claus caca. Vulture caca. Beetle caca. The streets are full of caca. And the food too. I’m sorry, folks, but New York is a filthy pig. A filthy, stinking pig.

I just got back from a trip to New York. I just got home. And I have seen the greatest thing. The finest thing on earth. I have seen the eyes of the most beautiful city in the world. I have seen the eyes of my city. I saw her sleeping. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do. I ran off in a panic through the streets. I got to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and rang the bells. I have seen the eyes of my city with my own eyes. I ran all the way to the Empire State, went up to the top floor, grabbed a loudspeaker, and yelled to the people of New York City. I have seen with my own eyes the finest city in the world. I have seen the city I love. What should I do? What should I do? Except run. Run until I’m tired of running. Until I’m tired of running and running and running. And now she is getting closer. And closer. And I feel the eyes of my city. And I feel she’s still near. I have seen the eyes of my city with my own eyes.

What’ll I do in this traffic of shepherds? I’ll blow my horn. I’ll carry a whip and lash my cows. They can’t get enough of grazing in the sidewalks. Can’t get enough of mooing in the newspapers. Can’t get enough of shitting. They’re grazing dreams in the middle of New York. In the middle of the sidewalk. Muttering and screaming. Damn you all. Go to hell. Every last one of you. I’m in the hurricane of New York Airport. To hell with the suitcases. And taxis. Damn the soul. Bodies. And hearts. And groans. Damn the seeds. And roots. And passports. Get the hell away from me. Let me graze poems and sonnets with my shepherds. Airplanes and airports, leave me alone. I have a cow. I have a flute. I create this Pastoral . Damn it. And you can go to hell. Every last one of you, damn it. To hell with you all.

Adoration. Veneration. Exclamation. All the children were gaping. Mama. I like the whistle. Buy me a whistle. I want a whistle. Mama. I don’t like this whistle. Mama. It doesn’t chirp like a birdie. Mama. I want a horn. Don’t you see I’m sad. Don’t you see the clouds. Don’t you see I want the sun. Mama. This whistle doesn’t work. Mama. What junk. Why don’t you buy me a whistle. Mama. I want another whistle. Buy me that one. That one. I don’t want it anymore. What junk. Mama. You’re a piece of junk. You look like a whistle. I want to get out of here. I’m fed up with hearing your whistle. Mama. I don’t like your whistle. You’re a nag. You look like a whistle. Get away. Mama. Look, your belly grew. And now you’re ugly. You look like a whistle. And you don’t know how to whistle.

I forgot to tell you something really important. I’m forgetful. And sometimes I’m lost. But I still have my eyes. And I still have my legs. And I don’t know what to do with so many eyes and so many legs. It is a never-ending tale. The concert ends. And the poem begins. Food runs out. And I’m still hungry. I just got up. And I’m still sleepy. And when I return I wish to be where I was. We already know this stuff. It’s a public affair. That’s why I still feel like thinking. And dreaming. And laughing. And crying. I am always back again and beginning anew. I told you before, I am an egg. And now that I am shaking I know everything is different. And I don’t want to return. Now that I’m about to come to the climax. Now that I’m made of mere tensions and mere tendons and pure dreams and pure color movies. Go ahead. Go ahead. The red light turns yellow and green. And from winters you subtract autumn and you add spring. And we are back in summer. It’s weird. I swear, everything seems so strange. And the weirdest part is that everything seems so weird to me. What do I know. That we are lightning. That we are only flashes of lightning. That later everything will be one more crayon in the infinite frame of lightning, painted and finished.

I could be awake or dreaming. We all could be. But everything has to do with everything. And see you soon. A cloud so red. Lightning so square. So profound. So ambiguous. It must have been an airport. Or a concert. Or a dinner. Or a theater. Maybe it was a fried egg. Or a raven. Or a vulture. Or a mystery. Or a secret. Maybe I was still groggy. But Giannina was mute. But Giannina was blind. But Giannina was an idiot. But Giannina was a beggar. And walked filthy from the streets and mud. Filthy from having gone through the world. And from having smelled all possible smells. The first thing I ask is that you open your eyes. The second is that you see. That you walk. That you run. And that you see. You’ll experience things you’ve never dreamed of. When you’ve returned from the other side of the world. When you’ve seen the light. When you’ve turned your back on sadness. I have planted poems in the saddest of the earth. I have painted Van Gogh. And I have been Zarathustra. I have descended the stairs. The sky is still far away. The sky is the seed. And the tree its harvest. And its history, the history of the stars. What could the infinite be. Stretch out your hand, blind, blind, blind. Stretch out your arms, Giannina. There’s something about it that still falls short. That still calls me. And reaches me. And seizes me. What can morning be? Or hope? What can it have? What does it have? And what will it have? And what did it have?

Set your mind at ease. Breathe. And set the world on fire. So the whole city burns down. So all is created. Make yourself at ease, Giannina. Make yourself at home. In your memory. Don’t burn its silence. Or the door. Go beyond the brink. And watch out. Sound out. Search. But don’t make its life miserable. Don’t take away its smile. Don’t take its mouth. Or its word. Don’t take its hat. Or its coat-rack. Don’t take its purse, its shadow or mystery. Let it have a bite in peace. Let it take a nap in peace. So it doesn’t have to burst. It already burst. Now it must relax. Every day off. Every holiday. Every day I do whatever I damn well please. Then the pinch. Or the tickle. Or the very chickpea that bursts. Or the very explosion that melts down. And goes home. As always. And opens its eyes. And sees. Sees everything. Retains everything. Focuses everything. Calm down, Giannina. Make yourself at ease on your rug. Your night spot. Your beehive. Let the watchman of the eye awaken from sleep. Awaken from death. Let him give the manuscript back to the earth. And let his mother in a carriage give back her son. And raise the earth. Nourish it. Amuse it. Entertain it. And leave it in peace. In peace until death. Leave it in front of the sea. Let it come face to face with itself. Without having to tell the truth. Without having to lie. Let it, let it, let it, finally live in peace. Let it. Let it die in peace.

I make the affirmation. I make the exclamation. I am the inquisition of memories. And I am bored by semicolons. I am bored by doubt. And above all, by memory. I am bored by memories and have reached the top of the world to burn them. My memories are in this book. Listen to me, ladies and gentlemen. This is the funeral of memories. This is their cemetery. This is their service. I don’t worship them or respect them in any way. They belong to no one. They don’t belong to the grave. They don’t even belong to memory. You’ve all seen the red chimeras and the black chimeras. And you’ve seen the drunkenness and the banquets. And then the remains of memories came and cleared away life. Death is called memory. And so is time. And so are the damned garbage collectors. I mean the shepherds of memory. And memories are shadows. And memories are death. I am not a memory. I am not an arsenal of epithets or metaphors. I am the star, and the star shines. I am affirmation. And I do not want concepts. I do not want abstractions. No, no, no, and no. I am not a semicolon. I want a period and a paragraph. I want to end it all, once and for all. Without any regrets. Without memory.