Not so much a gameas a sphere,a mystery.Held up to light,a small holeinto another dimension.

Of course they are gloomy;they drink a lot of vodka.

Like flocks of small dark birds,hidden parts of the self weep

All night you waited for morning, all morningfor afternoon, all afternoon for night;and still the longing sings.Oh, paper bird with folded wings.

March 15, 1998Let me forgetwhen the hanged manlooks in the window.Outside, the desperatespeak in a lost language.Let us in, they sigh,with the tongues of waterfalls.But you, out of breath,category of the misplaced;serial-killer of my days;while my left ventriclepumps the exact pressureof the universe . . .in spite of your default,with no substantial reason,I speak for youas though you are still here.We are arranged like that.A sad mistake, a Mendelbrot,a fractal glitch, a gift from zero.

How can I live like this?

All pauses in space,a violent compression of meaningin an instant within the meaningless.

Taste and smell of rainand beyond the veil,your voice,its trembling overtoneswithout body or remorse;these hoursthat keep me as an ornament.

Back then, I say, you could have died easily as he,all those frail geniuses died of syphilis or TB.