APRIL 7 2017

 

If only someone could have been saved    just one.

 

When I went down the stairway of the plain in Delhi, air was as thick as flesh, it was flesh. Flesh is a witness that embraces everything. I had to push the air all my way to the hotel, walls made of flesh. 

 

Do you know leprous have silver skin? You can spot them from far away, men whose skin shines like snake scales. Past is constantly changing. The train station next to the hotel was crowded with these men, whose skin was shaken by the wind. 

 

I got to understand universalism in India, not with Saint Paul. Saint Paul would speak of the resurrection of flesh and they would laugh at is words in Athens       However he spoke about equality between the master and the slave, he spoke about truth    well, there are no trues in India    there might be just one truth which is death that is “who knows what and who knows when”

 

There is nothing in death that you can either understand or think about     you can not grab her, you just cross the gate in your hotel room in Benares     the hands grab you you numb you are kind of out you can not think    that is what happened to me getting of the plane, I stopped thinking

 

You are falling asleep, is getting late shall we continue tomorrow?

 

 

You can’t think death     you can think you are seeing the river, the light and the death you stick together with owl or Imedio glue   you stick the water flow to the sky, the sky to the Mother and again the mother to water, water to your election then to a star and I eat it all in one bite.

 

You have to wide open the mouth to get to the other shore, leave your clothes on the sand you can’t think death nor light      I can only see the quilt of the hotel room the ground is drooling    now tell me when and where.

 

Breathing, heart beating have hypnotized my life       fragmented death just like this talk first and last time     tick-tack    Without a past, that is the first stop     What time is it now? In India, past and future have no sound    is the wet piece of cloth between your lips and the pipe, is the threshold     you push the air that is flesh     you can barely see and all you distinguish are the light of the river that appear and then fade away you can’t go upstream   look there you know that your body your way of being is time, there nothing you can do about it you can’t go to back so you swallow the space ahead of you

 

Look, there is a dear coming towards you and you can’t do nothing to stop it.

El Instante Fundación (G-57727497)

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elinstante@elinstantefundacion.org

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