preponderance of knives

there is also a wild beast-like craving for every inch of your body, for every secret and shameful part of it, for every odor and act of it.

from juliao sarmento to his wife


felt something end today. otherwise unremarkable, except the cold and a conversation two tunisian correspondents fresh from the scene of the revolution. the small group of us huddled the ny campus this evening while they recounted the last week and the extreme change from the tunisia of their childhoods, the ex ambassador came as well. now, we wait to see. in egypt, mubarak says he won't contend for power in the next elections, will el-baradei succeed him? how is it going to be in north africa, what shape will the new democracy take, what language will it speak, what now? lots of tea on rue st maur, a little girl rubs her cheek along my arm each time she runs up to the bar to get more apple juice. the bartender and i share a look that says: oh yes she completely destroyed my heart, too. poorly made organs, children can melt them. thesis research with glassy eyes. a green and a red apple. tomorrow's sandwich in a plastic bag. blue and gold box: trappisti. allyson and i discuss the apartment we will share in may. oh, but i wanted to go home, to go west, to wade on the coastline with the sharp mineral smell of california, wanted to go backwards. nuzzle my nose into mu duvet, take my books out of their boxes, arrange my potted plants in the sun, exclaim: look how you've grown, hug my brother, my grandmothers. and now, i have new books. i have new potted plants to leave behind. comfortable and non-portable clutter. my important pictures, one in the frame i found in the alley between union and locust, one in the brass triptych holder. my mother behind the newspaper, my mustachioed father, my brother missing a tooth.

woman with white paste on her lips, choking. spittle running don her chin, as though mad. eyes clear, she is lucid, but takes the blade and guides it gently into her open mouth. her cut is slow and measured. sometimes the tongue must come out, sometimes it must be cut out with all its good and bad intentions, removed and cast away. and the breath returns. and the blood runs clean. and the new words are truer still than the old words, flowing in glistening streams, seeping into the thirsty dirt that swallows everthing. on n'effacera jamais rien, on peut tout au mieux délaver.