Giannina Braschi - Empire of Dreams

The fruits are about to burst, about to provoke thunder, or a storm, or a root, or a sky. The day is about to burst. I’m about to give birth, about to have a pup. The sun is about to dawn. The moon is about to be full. The mother is about to suckle. The poet about to write. The man about to die. The shy about to speak. The deaf about to hear. War about to break. Peace about to return. Storm and thunder about to. Rainbow about to. And also memory about to. Sound about to. Living about to. Laughter about to. Well-being about to. Smile about to. Sickness about to. The killer about to kill. The dancer about to dance. The clown to cry. The child to scream. The conductor to conduct. The violinist to play. The audience to applaud. Love to erupt. The door to slam. The drum to beat. The plane to soar. The stork to deliver. The lion to roar. The poet about to write. About to die in peace. About to live in peace. About to be happy. About to scream. About to love. About to sleep. About to create and create and create and erupt and explode and scream and laugh and sleep and dream and laugh and create and create and give birth and have stars and thunder and lightning and pups. And about to groan, sleep, dream, scream, give birth. And create. Create. Create. Create. Create. About to create. Create. Create. About to dream. About to create, create, create, create.

The chestnut vendor looks like a nut. Looks like a tadpole, a toad, a mouse. She is scratching a nut. And feels a tickle. Feels an itch. She’s got chicken pox. Measles. Leprosy. And a blue butterfly. Roaring thunder. The witch drops a piece of porcupine into the cauldron. There’s a thorn at the tip of her nose. The orchestra explodes. And the ballerina fell in love with the killer. The hurricane fell in love with the thunder. The boy thinks he’ll be a man. The trumpeter fell in love with his nose. He’s nasal. Nasal. Nasal. The Pied Piper of Hamelin fell in love with the mouse. The Pied Piper is a magnet. The weight lifter has muscles that look like clouds. They’re not clouds. They’re muscles. They’re thunder. They’re nuts. The chestnut vendor wears an apron. The boy dresses like a tumbler. The bench feels lonely, lonely. The loner is full of chestnuts. The chestnut is a basket full of oranges. There is a seed in the fruit. A chestnut in the shell. The trumpeter blows the trumpet. The shell cracks open. The boy falls down. The ballerina dances the minuet. The violinist plays the wrong note. Hurricane, trumpet, thunder, orchestra…

The sweet madman and the bitter madman started laughing…I won’t say what they were talking about, I don’t even know. I relate to the mesh and the wand. Do I look like an idiot? I’m a tuna melt. I’m a cracked egg. I’m the same as you are. A pair of red slippers. Dance, I will dance. Idiot. Idiot. Your eyes are popping out. Your eyes shiver from the cold. My lips kissed, kissed, kissed. And they opened. And yours closed, closed. I have nothing more and nothing less. I shrug my shoulders, I don’t give a damn. I’m indifferent. Indifference shuts like a tooth. And bites me when it shuts. I’m sad, worried, and helpless. You have to change the record. I know this melody by heart. Change, change the scenery. The sweet madman and the bitter madman started lamenting…

They don’t recognize me. They don’t know who I am. I’m sadly helpless. I was an earthworm, and a little dwarf, and I believed I was a giant, but I was a nut, and I was becoming an egg. They cracked my shell in halves. My yolk flowed. The yolk of my egg was yellow. They ate me. And I blazed, blazed. I am the yolk of the sun. I am a golden acorn. I am wheat. I am aniseed. I am hurricane and thunder too. I tremble with dread, I tremble with fear. I protect myself from the sun. Then I doubt, but I feel the water. I am the sweet madman. I am the bitter madman. I am helpless amidst thunder. The wind blew off my hood. I have an ant and a snail. And I sleep in a shell. I am the egg. I am the yolk. I am the cloud of the egg white. I am the nourishment. I am the leftovers. It is I. Be careful you don’t throw me away. I might become an egg again and start blazing.

Stand up, sit down, jump, shout, slide, roll, yell. Curse, burst. Be a knave and a busybody. Be a fool. Be a rascal and a piece of cork. A fried egg. A rotten egg. A rotten orange. A snowball. A piece of porcupine. A soccer ball. A man. A man. He stood up and jumped. He looked like a ball. He looked like a fried egg. I shouted. Yelled. Screamed. Smashed. I was a tuna melt. A fried egg. I was the yolk of the sun. The roundest egg that ever existed on the roundest planet that ever existed. I have fingers. I have a mouth. Hands. Balls. I have a shirt and pants. I’m naked. Stand up and shout it. Walk. Stand up. And yell it. Walk. Run. I am. Man. Man. I am. The world. Leg. Life. Laugh. Smile. Tooth. Thigh. Leg. Mouth. Ear. Face. Nose. Navel. Laugh. Laugh. Face. Ear. Life. People. Man. Life.

I am the round heart of the ball of the world. And I am tired of being thrown around, as if my hand were worthless, as if my legs didn’t know how to bounce back. I love so much. I make a vow. I throw the ball. It’s only a game. A round game. Which takes my eyes. Leaves me blind. I don’t believe it. I have a ball. And lots of other things. I have everything. I have it all. You have to believe me. I’m ready to corner it all. I’ll breathe fire and fury. I’ll get pregnant and love my belly. I love my belly inflated. And I love the exact moment of having pups. Then I groan. Then I bleed. Then my belly collapses. Then I’m the army ant. And most of all the kangaroo. How odd. What a weird feeling. It’s pale. It’s pale. But it’s airy, bulky, and heavy too. And later the explosion. So the puppy whimpers. So the chick cracks his shell. I like fried eggs. I like shells. What would I do without this protective shell? That’s why I love the acorn. It reminds me of a nutshell. And a nut is an aniseed. Such drunkenness. But I’m missing the yolk of the sun. And I’m unbridled. Where is the ostrich egg? It’s playing hide and seek. Playing hide and seek, but the egg, that’s it, the golden acorn, and the chimpanzee that I’m so in love with. And here is the result: the acorn, and from that giant chimpanzee grew the oak. And from the oak, the dwarf called by another name, man. What a fine thing to learn.

Let’s see. Everything that is made up. Look at the busybody and the knave, at the cistern and the army ant. The ant’s kingdom seems to me like a soccer player. And like a porcupine. And a cistern. The child who cannot heave her heart into her mouth. Explodes. Explodes in a different way. She has a cherry that looks like a heart. It’s not a heart, of course. It doesn’t listen, doesn’t hide. It blasts. And blares. Like a trumpet. It makes a curious, queer sound. But what a jumbo ear. It looks like mine. I have an elephant’s ear. And a dunce cap. I won’t leave anything empty. There’s a hole here. It’s not deep, it’s not a bucket, and it’s not a well. There’s a wound too. And it’s not an ear. I spoke of the eye placed above my nose. And above is my forehead, and my hair too. The ear is a lie detector. The mouth is so big and so small. And what about the tongue. Even the ant has a tongue. And the little earthworm is red. No one walks as wrinkled as a caterpillar. It’s a pity that a dancing serpent doesn’t amount to much. I prefer a snake a thousand-fold because it has fangs. Sneaky dog. Just like a fox. Don’t hide the flower. Be the hidden serpent. Stick out your tongue. Make a face at me. Porcupine. You rhinoceros. I have yet to meow. It’s not enough to speak.

Everything keeps changing on us. Suddenly, a heart appears. I see it, watch it. And see it’s not round. It has no blood. It has a pulse and a star. It has everything I want you to be. I want nothing, except what I want. And I want the heart of the boat. I like the boat because it’s wide. Because both of us, the ant and the thunder, fit inside. Let lighting explode. And let an egg appear. And let the sunset spill over. It’s the yolk, the yellowest part of the heart. It’s thick. It’s like a boat. It reminds me of a white cloud in the shape of an old man. It’s like an old man in the shape of a star or lightning. It’s a monkey, a chimpanzee. An acorn hiding a cloud. And the cloud will give birth to rain. And, of course, to the acorn and man. And man isn’t a boat, isn’t an oak, isn’t sun or star or lightning. Although the white beard will always be a blue cloud and have stars, it will also be the blue beard or the rain, and when it rains it will never be lightning or thunder. It will suddenly be the heart.