Blue Music Dream, Poetics

White Elephant

In a Corolla we pass a grave without a headstone – a man under a pile of rocks set where a dirt road unwinds. His rest is a storey of the arrangement of stone and the music of tyre on dirt. He must have been a traveller before this, a man like I am. He is asleep in the carriage air of certain cold cafes, minding his business. And he can decide to make his way to a nearby waterfall, digging, clawing, crawling. Or he can be my fingers when I bend down to touch the water, the hydra laughter in the Ultraviolet of 58s parked in the purses of whores in a strip club.
He could be a traveller like I am. “One-track minds may lead to their origins. Perhaps I am still in utero, hung up in/by my delivery.” Travelling the world and contemplating a dead man, or what I imagine to be the space occupied by a dead man, thinking about a wine list. This could be the after-life, a secret bunker, the hurt locker of a white elephant.
(I’d like to be accessible, but I am only human). The borders in the sun, unremarkable, the road like any other, there is no beauty here, just a simple grave, my friends and I in a white Corolla, outside a park for white elephants. An unmarked grave is a book of poems.
Thank you for the painkillers. Go to all the places that can be Metropolitan. Sitting in a Somali restaurant on Standard Street I see that my dream was right: rain water is black after all. This city is a reservoir of pain. Leave this place. Go, travel, see the world. See all the white elephants, the unremarkable Corollas, see all the graves in private cemeteries built in the middle of public roads. Go. Find yourself a companion and a word processor. Sleep when you can, for some white elephants are CGI. These are the most beautiful, with bands of light, in places marked as genre film. As for me, I am a carrier, emotion and history do not affect me. If they do it is in the fashion of dust settling on a grave after all the mourners have gone and the wreaths discarded. All I want is a room like this one, with big windows and long paragraphs, the faint smell of fresh paint, an article in the paper about a girl who sings opera, and a fake weapon. There will always be the brief stories of strangers in newspapers.


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