PISSING ON MOUNT ARARAT
The rooftops are secured by love. There
is more true realism in the craziest picture
of the most abstract subjectivist, in the silent
concoction of lines, dots and spots, than in all
the harmonious worlds commissioned by
bureaucrats. A strange, silly, crazy picture is,
after all, a true expression of at least
one living human's soul.
-
A mountain had died : all that was left were
its rocks, its fields of stone. Along the sideway,
the craftsman was making metal wreaths adorned
with metal leaves. At every local village funeral here
in these mountains there are some hundred plus
people and usually as many wreaths as people. The
creator of these funeral wreaths has become rich.
-
Notwithstanding the rest, I stand before a pile of bricks
on a rock-strewn hilltop, alone. Some old, broken
construction site, long ago unfinished, is before me. I
am pissing on 600-year old bricks and all the ground
beneath. The relief of a poetry like no other : for thousands
of years poets have been striving to convey Happiness.
That, now, which I have here achieved.
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