I feel sorry for the housewives
the way they struggle
every morning to dissipate the dust from their home -
dust, the fleshless' ultimate flesh.
Brooms sweepers
vacuums feathers brushes
dusters rags clowns
noises and acrobatic styles,
the movements fall like a whip
on the domestic dust.
Every morning the balconies and windows
amputate a movement and a hot flash:
bodiless heads bob like a yoyo,
arms protrude and writhe
as if something is cutting them up internally,
broken bodies, halves
severed by the bending.
One more rupture of the Whole.
It keeps breaking,
it breaks even before it exists
as if for this exact reason -
not to be.
So much for a whole life.
But why call it a whole life
when the gage you are holding when we measure
is always faulty?
Whole is a pathetic word.
It wanders, strapping, as if out of this world.
That's why the skint magnitudes call it crazy.
Dustings airings
for the dust to leave the dark places
to leave the sleep's deep nests,
the sheets and the covers.
And those times at night
when the body jumps up frightened
screaming my Lord I am dwindling,
they will get dusted as well -
dust, the decline and fear
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
The sleep's swollen pillows
punch each other badly and I get scared
worried in case there will be any damages:
the dreams' crystal wills are in there.
A dream inherits all other dreams,
humans inherit none.
I fear, I can't bear to watch
such a global disinheritance
being tossed away like dust.
Rug bangs
to oust the dust from the designs' nests,
to make it fall in from the colour's bridges.
And the fast gait,
all that delirious to and fro inside the house
on the shallow trust of the carpets
so the people downstairs won't hear what treads
won't hear what doesn't conform,
will be dusted as well
and like I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
I feel sorry for the housewives
their baren strain.
The dust does not go away, it does not diminish.
Whenever time meets time
a new dust settlement is agreed on.
What protects from it - be it Clean
or Stability - are actually vehicles for its return.
They are the first in line to bring it back.
I have not seen surfaces covered with more dust than those two.
Even Light, the ultimate pristine
delights in carrying dust:
it is a miracle to watch
how the still dust advances through a sun ray,
as if on an electric escalator
those modern ones, the hypnotic ones,
with the emasculated steps.
It is carried
visible like thick ground-up air
to reenter from the open windows
from its open rules.
It makes our existence its home and future.
I let it settle, untidy as I am.
There, studious on the back of a book
about Senescence.
On the prudent photograph of my children
when they used to wear me
their white collared perfectly round Mother
loose sewn from the inside
with hidden sparse stitches
on their school uniform.
They are dressed as Adults now,
the dust now wears their uniform
the round collar,
the dust wears the Mother me
- like all relationships and addictions
should be sawn,
with sparse loose stitches,
so that they can easily be unraveled.
I never dust
the brass athlete
that decorates the big brass clock.
Its muscles
seem angry.
Perhaps because it is forced to firm up
something very invisible,
maybe it firms up time,
maybe time wants
to run faster than usual.
Dust would be pleased with that track record.
It sits on my mirror,
I gave it away, it can have it.
What would I do with such a heath object anyway?
I stopped cultivating my faces in there,
I am not up to ploughing changes
and being doubled up as any other.
I let it sit
I let it approach
come aplenty
I let it pour over me
like a ground up narration of a long story,
I let it approach apace apace
like time that got firmed up
to run faster than usual
and there it sits the heavy cumbersome dust,
I let it sit, age,
it covers me cumbersomely, I let it
to cover me I let it
it covers me
that you leave me behind I let it
that you leave me behind I permit
you leave me behind
to leave me behind
I permit you
because I can't bear airing
the private life out in public.
