For Charles

With the books it’s always the same. You read, you read, you read. History repeats itself. All the time. Once there were angels as many as flies, Simic tells us. Then there were the young ones who died with passion in their blood, Blaga tells us. And I, I. I am someone’s secret. I live and fly. I vacillate between the boots and the books, the cantors and the kisses. I’m forty, how can I still do high performance alpinism? I paint instead. People want the works. But how can I sell my Nureyev? I put on my Ralph Lauren organza and sing a Bach cantata. From the shelf that faces me, the history of madness winks. Gödel didn’t think Leibniz wrote his works. Just like his precursor, who didn’t think that Shakespeare wrote his. Whose works do I write? Who do I call a liar? Inside me, you’re playing all of Schubert’s string quartets. The cello vibrates in my head, and I can’t count anymore.


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