Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

Let’s begin all over again. Let’s begin by affirming that poetry has died. And that I’m not a poet. And I’ll never, ever be one. I’m not interested in poetry. I don’t like life. I detest men. I hate children. I hate the sea. I hate my mother and my father. I have no brothers. I have no family. Mankind disgusts me. I am bitter. My brows are knit, and I feel such envy. Such envy that resembles hope. That waits for others to die. I don’t expect to die. I expect to kill you. I expect to devour you. I expect to destroy you when you least expect it. I’ll drive ten knives into your back. And I’ll turn saint. I will have killed what was the best in you. And I’ll be happy. Happy you’re dead. How I wish you were dead. Bastard. All these are my desires. But I won’t confess them. I’ll keep them close at heart. I am so good. So good. So good. I will live. I will live forever. I am the best of men. The most envious. The lewdest. The biggest pervert. The biggest liar. The most jealous. And the ugliest. I am the devil. The best angel in the world.

How can the music be playing so loudly? My ears are splitting. I can’t stand it. It’s not Beethoven. The absolute is too much. And so is the void. Dance and dance. Like a mouse. Or a small squirrel. Drink and drink, like no one else. Well, aside from everything being absolute, there’s absolutely no comparison in this world. I’m watching the absolutes dancing. And the voids. Concepts. Allegories. Metaphors. Spiked heels. Absent ladies. And present public. What a bunch of absolutes, I whisper, helpless. I whisper in the ear of one of the guests. My brows are knit. I’m frowning again. And someone interrupts with an inopportune sneeze. How dare he. Show-off. The absolute lord of concepts. Pure abstractions. Cigarette. Dust. Smoke. Petrified guest. And phantoms. A squirrel keeps going by. And keeps dancing. A dancing mouse. Music at every interval around my soul. Or every absolute reduced at once to utter nothingness.

I have to describe what’s happening to me. And I have to describe it in the same way. I have to study it. I have to make it mine. There are many things that are. The seasons of the year are. There they are. Just like we are out there. Hatred and envy are also out there. They are an integral part of every man. They take root in every inch of the heart. In every piece of flesh. In every man. In every body. I’m a body I don’t understand. What am I? I ask. And I laugh. I don’t know. Yet I do. Because I have never said what I am, though I often ask myself. I will be, I always say. And time passes, and I see the seasons. They are. Yes, they are. And then I bow my head and sink in sunsets. No, it isn’t a child’s wheel. It’s neither birth. Nor death. I won’t define it. I’d rather destroy it. Or let them destroy me. It was time for us to sink in the abyss. Silence. Nothing is there. Nothing exists. Except multitudes of broken things. There is nothing after silence.

To see the distance then. To see it standing, and to see it made into a body. With breath. With eyes. With deaths. Then to see absences. Memories. To see films. Again. Without enthusiasm. Without beauty. To see it standing and sitting, writing poetry. And to see the waves of the sea. And to see the sun. Or the moon. Or to discover that they are always born. And they always die. As always. And they always sleep. They spend summers away leaving winters behind. They’re drawn to autumns. Sundays. And birthdays. They go to discos. And get tired of dancing. And they talk. How many people have I slept with? How many men do I get up with? And the next morning, the morning, the mirror that grows each day until it turns into a ball of fire. I’d give up everything I own to escape this damned world. I’d sell my eyes and my legs. I’d sell my ways. And my sorrows. I’d become a sailor and sail. To see the distance then. We returned by foot that same day on the rails of life. Through tunnels of death. To see springs then. And sadnesses. And I’m not dissatisfied. I keep my distance. So I’m not taken by surprise. So that life surprises me.

What radiant colors. What childhoods. What wombs or mornings. White walls all around the length and width and depth of my soul. The piano surrounded by men or women and children. The piano plays. I was listening to it, off to the side. Pale. Way down inside me. Way beyond the sounds. Throughout the sunset, said the rosary of a dawn. Because dawns have rosaries. And also nightingales. Absurd. As absurd as sunset. They start cooking breakfast. They start dressing at the break of day. They become as absurd as the sun. Or morning. But the piano, so absurd. As absurd as day. As night itself. Like the piano. They start playing. They start singing. They start reciting. They start lecturing. As absurd as noon. Who can understand them? Absurd. Who can figure them out? Absurd. From each sun. From each new sunshine. Only the rosary of dawn remains. And the radiance of morning. Absurd. Cast off the sheets. Open the bed. Absurd. Casting through the window. Absurd. Casting. What colors. What childhoods. What dawns. Absurd.

Watching everything, said the spectator. Profane Comedy . The party. Or time, said the director. And fate, said the boy. And my baby teeth, he added, pointing to the void. And fate, repeated the boy. And this time he pointed to the pianist. Music always starts suddenly, said the pianist suddenly. And he surprised them. Children always crawl showing their baby teeth. Flies are always killed suddenly. And he surprised them again. Suddenly fate escaped. Suddenly the pianist. And the painter. Suddenly the spectator. Where there is no distance between the spectacle and the performance. Only the fate that marches. Silence, silence, please. This is when the hostess comes in, sits down, and surprises them again. The guests looked at each other surprised, and surprised each other again. Suddenly the piano played one of the keys of the pianist. How strange! And it surprised them again.

Hear this. Bastards. Don’t think that anybody or anything is going to kill me. Not the vinaigrette olives. Not the coffee cake of the most bitter expectation. When after all, it’s too late. What is hunger? The hunger that devours me. Hunger. No, no, I’ll tell the olives. No, no, I’ll tell the salad dressings. No, no, to the vegetables. No, no, to the green giants. No, no, to the liquor of dreams. And to the coffee cake of feeling good. And to the stuffed stomach. I know the story quite well. I know what it’s all about. I know all its arguments by heart. I swear No! for all the gold in the world, No! and No! No! No! No! I can’t stay seated and end up feeling full or bloated when the same crap as always repeats itself. And appetizers and desserts turn my stomach. Nauseated, I bid farewell. Nauseated. And I do not resign. Nor do I give up. No! and no! and no!

Now I laugh at everything and not for the irony. Even though my eyes are closing. And I’m not asleep. How many more minutes do I have left? Is it true that they’ll shoot me soon? And why not now? I’m not afraid of guns. Let them pull the trigger. Let them kill me. I told you they could pull the trigger. Why don’t they just pull the trigger and finish me off? Answer me. Why don’t they just pull it? We’re not immortals, and a shot in the temple would end it all. What’s stopping them from pulling it? Why is it so hard now that I’m so far away from my base and it would be so easy to pull that trigger? What’s the big deal? Why don’t they just finish pulling it? Why? Unless it’s too hard to point at me with a pistol. And become murderers. But they’re already that. Is it their guilty conscience. You know, the little worm. And nothing else. No shit. Cowardice. And nothing else. Cowardice. And all the rest. Pantomimes!

The sunset is purple. Then I discover night. Beside the night, half an orange open. Slices. The sky is starry at the party. And there is an orange fire. The bell rings. Orange behind orange. Here in the living room. Here in the courtyard. The teacher spoke. The spectator spoke. The producer spoke. We saw the film. We saw the ambulance. We saw the teacher swallow the purple sunset. And his nostalgia was yellow. Canaries are yellow. And form is yellow. And hope is yellow. But what do I care? Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! And I took my partner out to dance. I see everything. Everything. Everything. I see clearly. There’s absolutely no confusion. Everything is transparent. He swallows another draught of sleep. I remember. And I drink. But I see it very clearly. So clear. I faint. I fall. And die. Heh! Heh! Heh! Heh! I die. And I don’t move. I die. Heh! I move. Ha! I die.