at this tower of babel everyone speaks the same language

so he saw the tower in a city i remember as a
green park
bench, exploding white stars of seagulls’s droppings and a big brown
river slugging its way through the green green grass shining from the
sun like a lazy, mythically-sized snake.

and i saw it in a ruko complex overcrowded with shiatsu massage
parlours, korean corner stores and an angry girlfriend.

but i don’t care about the now.

i guess he never got his feet on the ground because his legs
are helicopter’s propellers.

and even though kiarostami speaks exclusively in parsi we understand
everything, unlike, you know, in that tower.

did she undertstand lights without sounds?

could she have dreams of a mute joe pernice?

i guess she could if she’s seen joe in cabo wabo.

could she count the syllabic length of a breakneck
speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

breakneck
speeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed

?

could she work out the stressed and unstressed syllables in
a feet?

i like his language

it’s got that slinkiness

born out of just hanging out, kicking back

with friends who speak the same language as you.

maybe even a girl-

friend.

i will never have that anymore.

so i rely on my split copy of the cantos

fixing my stares just above the broken white of bowdlerized
subtitles

and a heart nowhere near as big as phar lap.

they keep a carbon copy of his body in a room just down the
street from where he lives

where the temperature is kept constant at a perfect 21 degrees.