THE FUGITIVE

I run stepping over corpses, sliding on blood and excrement. They follow me and say: this man has not been seduced by the celestial choirs, prophet’s visions or the crisp tongue of muses! You see, an eye, is not a perfect sphere pinked by capillary webs, it is a liar and a judge who trap us outside of ourselves. The eyelids are hatching the egg, one day a bird that will learn how to fly. You see, circles are hunchbacks; squares resemble Siamese twins, triangles, bow-legged. I learned how to lie with a golden mean, I tell the truth with a crooked branch through fields of burning stakes. I run barefooted over broken glasses, they follow. I am a fugitive who concaved the surface of Cartesian planes, filling rooms with earth, disinterred bodies licked by light, like cotton balls soaked in iodine. I run across empty parks, over roof tops, jumping the walls, breaking through windows. My sentence hangs from the mouth of a barrel. I fill my pockets with stones arming my self with a nail, their dogs are sniffing my footpaths, I hear them yawning. I live under the cover of my own shadow, picking from the crusts, milk skin pinched between fingers. Inside the darkened rooms, a moribund candle light bites my eyeballs like maggots gnawing an apple. In the shadows my faceless expression is a rumor of revolting fire-flies. With a torch of nocturnal luminescence I see: black flowers in black vases, black papers over a black table, black windows overlooking black landscapes. The skin of darkness is a silk rag. When the cloth slides and falls from my shoulders, I find my self cut away from the space, swimming in a pool of liquid onyx, staring with saltpeter and nitro eyes, a promise of green leafs after my death of every winter.