... ?

et tout d'abord l'interrogation

la gratitude d'interroger et d'interrompre pour mieux respirer

avant d'embarquer on boit l'inconnu dans les marges des cartes

l'Ame des matelots et le bois des bateaux deviennent interrogatifs
substantiellement interrogatifs
et puis les courants maritimes les oiseaux migratoires
enfin les amours d'outre-mer

pourquoi encore ce silence

et ce silence cyclique arrache tous les paysages de ma peau

si jamais je survis ce passage de feu
je veux pouvoir rien n'oublier et faire de chacun de tes silences une cicatrice sur mon visage jusqu'a l'irreconnaissable
les monstres que je serai m'apprendront l'art du changement et de la derive 'a double tranchant
Sophia sait que l'Impossible aime boire l'acide toujours nouveau de mon angoisse chaque matin Sophia sait aussi que les quais m'appellent 'a une nudite pleine et permanente que personne ne voudra approcher
je medite l'idee de m'eteindre au soleil tout nu au bord d'une mer

si jamais je survis cette tendresse de couteaux
j'espere m'egarer definitivement dans les cotes nocturnes des chants

impossible dancers

"No name names Thee."

this silence raises
the tension
between naming and groping
in the dark

Reasons

Reasons for doing and not doing pass and disagree, as if they were clouds.

To dare make happen or not dare, or not make, or not happen.
I ponder my hands and it rains. The first rains of Spring explain the interiority of all ephemeral flowers and languages. Disclosure and change have future, future only.
Reasonings are cloudy, meanings are rather sunny. But today the weather solves nothing. Maybe tomorrow after some catastrophe.

I imagine my eyes looking retrospectively from a remote nameless future. They look at this undetermined weather but they understand not-why, not-what, not-how.
Something unclear is drawing in, maybe. And I hesitate bodily between various modes and degrees of madness. Unclear remains also the intimate relationship between Being, Self and Sacrifice.

Dear reader

You are reading me.
I am writing you you are reading me. You are writing me I am reading you. This is just the beginning of an extraordinarily proficuous confusion.
I could write I love you but I shall not but I did. This is the last time you read me. You are my last reader. Absolutely. I do not know what this means. But, whatever it may be, I mean it all and I mean also something radically different. Beyond the text. And I appeal to a rebellion among the cells of your body.
You are my last reader. I do mean all possible meanings of 'my', 'last', and 'reader'. Maybe I shall become infinitely illegible and I shall be the first one not knowing how to read my writing. Anyway, I write without aiming at any possible reading. I have been studying some of the most intelligent rivers in my planet and they, too, are writing continuously without without without. Whatsoever.
Even yesterday, it was the same. Exactly the same. The truth is the same, whether from a boat, a bridge or just from my body - cruelly in motion at rest. And you were there, because there is no river that flows without foregrounding You and backgrounding You and ... You.
Yet, you have just repeated a past participle three times, three times, three times. It leads nowhere, whereas all rivers flow somewhere. All their geography is about desiring time-space, charting desire and sailing on it. As long as you keep writing on the margins of the texts, I remain illegible. From the margins to the open chest of the text through the whiteness of drums hidden between the lines... this is the movement of meaningful flowing.
Only then, can the mouth open waves of silence, those rare ones which are the closest to music. Only after that silence, is music the most natural idiom of love.

Manhã de Ressuscitar

Suicidei-me no final do verão. Deixei uma carta psicologicamente obscura, mas com muito interesse literário para os amantes do hermético e do oximórico. No lugar da palavra Adeus, havia uma linha em branco. No lugar da assinatura, outra linha em branco. Nas entrelinhas, lia-se um texto atlântico sobre grandes travessias. Nas entrelinhas, não havia náufragos, apenas naufrágios com barcos vazios a aportar no vazio. Ora, é daí, exactamente do coração das entrelinhas, que vos escrevo e vos escreverei sobre o ilegível.

Hoje, não sei ressuscitar. Estando no sepulcro há dois dias, hoje deveria poder retomar o meu corpo, reconhecer-me nele tocando as minhas feridas abertas, mas exangues. Deveria ser possível ou necessário ressuscitar. Mas eu não sei. Não sei de onde vem o verbo "Salvar" e pressinto a impossibilidade do verbo "salvar-se". Quem salva quem quem? Também não compreendo de que árvore se faz uma cruz e de que carne se faz um crucificado-que-ressuscita. Creio, porém, que o mistério da paixão tem muito interesse literário para quem pratica os caminhos conturbados das entrelinhas e que todos esses caminhos desaguam aqui.
Aqui, onde me descompreendo e me ofereço às árvores.
Primavera ou Nada.

Sur l'angoisse

Qu'est-ce que l'angoisse, l'Infinie, os de mes os et chair de ma chair?

C'est celle qui respire ainsi:
"je pose des questions qui me déposent."