Lin Khejinyan. Mars Man

Lyn Hejinian is an American poet, essayist, translator, and publisher.
The text was published in issue 10.
Translation by Kirill Azerny.
Kirill Azerny is a Russian- and English-language prose writer.
Illustration by Andrey Cherkasov (from the 6th issue of the magazine “Here”).

1

I am a human in the absence of others of a yet better red.
Omniscience is violent, infinite.
There are no straight lines except those I make, and I do this rarely.
I don't foresee that I'm here by choice or of necessity, perhaps I will never know or never want to know.
There are no birches here nor lemons nor elk nor signs of social insects, but there are flakes and something similar to red slate and mirages very close at hand.

I am a man in the absence of others who are even redder.
Polyscience is cruel and endless.
There are no straight lines, except those that I occasionally draw.
I don't foresee myself being here by chance or necessity; maybe I'll never want to know or won't find out.
There are no birches and lemons, moose or signs of social insects, but there are flakes and what looks like red shale and mirages at arm's length.

2

I come from the Red Leaps—that's what I called the first new place and now am calling another.
Everything new comes at me and with me.
It is nothing but flame and all one flame or none and the same.
This world has a red edge, that might be lit by candlewicks, then cigarettes, headlights, blasts, and flares.
Red arts, red candies, red controls.

I come from the Red Jumps - that’s what I called the first new
place and also call another.
Everything new comes in me and with me.
Nothing but fire, and that’s all - one or none.
This world carries a red edge, it can be filled with wick light, then - cigarettes and headlights, explosions and torches.
Arts red, red candies and buttons.

3

Even monosyllables are still rare in my conversations with myself, I have too little percussivity of thought.
Once I found webs that had formed between my fingers and toes and under my arms and between my legs—perhaps time once meant me to become airborne.
Let's begin then with that to which I might have fled, the original desiderata.
Red life that rises.
Red guitars, red occupations, red rills—it is midseason here and I need red skills.

Even monosyllable words are still rare in my conversations with myself, the percussiveness of my thoughts is too weak.
One day I found cobwebs appearing between my fingers and toes, and under my arms, and between my legs - perhaps time had once appointed me to become a flyer.
Let's then start with where I could have flown - the original deserter.
Red life that rises.
Red guitars, red classes, red gullies - it's the off-season and I need red skills.

4

Talkless the tongue looks—but I mean to say “lacks” or “likes,” reveling (revealing) in the opening of my red mouth, pink gums, the release of salmon.
The grounds for my preoccupations here are iron rich.
The old coinage here is unready, leaden.
I cannot return trees to fire in toto.
This soil is the refuge of no previous profile and from that I must add my own and germminate new ones.

The tongue looks dumb - but I mean “does not get” or “loves”, basking (baring) in the opening of my red mouth, pink gums, released salmon.
The basis for my concerns here is rich in iron.
Old minting of cheese and lead.
I can't return the trees to the fire in toto.
This land is a refugee without a history, and so I add mine and bring out new ones.

5

I am a tenant here of a rose.
Where, and what or who, is the ventriloquist?
Tone is yet to be learned, and I have yet to respond: mollified, or like a sculpted monument from rust risen from unlegislated sediment.
In silence ubiquitous I eat raspberries, binge on tomatoes, and dream of bleeding cows.
I am sucking red and scratching.

I am a tenant - there are roses here.
Where, and who or what is the ventriloquist?
The tone has not yet been learned, and I have yet to answer: softened, or like a stucco monument made of rust growing from random humus.
In the universal silence, I eat raspberries, dig into tomatoes, and dream about cow’s blood.
I suck the red one and comb it.

6

I am not like a soldier, nor like a beet—similitude here is inconsequential and best abandoned, as I am, yet to come.
War fever has yet to go elsewhere, with peace chasing after it, crossing a mile and then an ex-mile, but imprecisely.
There is no overcoming radish, lurching diphthong parachute, military cinema parcel, packaged snarl.
Time transits the bustling abyss.
Music isn't impossible when it's happening under the velocity of a solar shout, so gusts of xylophonic quaver have shifted my hair.

I don’t look like a soldier, I don’t look like a beetroot - the resemblance here is inconsistent and it’s better to leave it, because I’m still coming.
The fever of war will go somewhere else, with peace on its tail, crossing
a mile and the same mile then, but not exactly.
There is no overcoming radish drilling the parachute of double-sounding,
cinema paya of a military, folded roar.
Time conveys the vanity of the abyss.
Music is not an empty invention if it happens at the speed of a solar scream,
so that waves of xylophonic tremors ruffled my hair.

7

I don't live in comic melancholy, I'm choleric.
My mechanism is evolving from the ovulation of rubries, and my intellect generates rubrics.
Human of marvel, human of markets, human of marble, almost human here of eggy bones.
Of what use will be cock or cunt, they are cavernous, decorative, extrovert.
My brain is brick.

I do not live in comic melancholy, I am choleric.
My mechanism evolves from the ovulation of rubies, and the intellect produces paragraphs.
A man of miracles, a man of markets, a man of marble, almost a man - here, made of egg bones.
What about the penis and vagina - they are sunken, decorative, external.
My brain is a brick.

8

I somnambulate without moving a muscle, formed for freedomless forms.
Life is a paradox ergo three accuracies ergo levity, fear, and fate, or (waving Occam's razor) ergo ergo ergo.
Fetal admirals battle as commas claw, inklings of desperate sense.
Bound redbud trees and rosy yams and ironic russet clay.
I didn't lift a finger, or I did.

I sleepwalk without making a single movement, formed for forms deprived of freedom.
Life is a paradox ergo three clarifications egro lightness, fear and fate,
or (waving Occam's razor) egro egro ergo.
The womb admirals fight as commas scrape, hints of desperate meaning.
Intertwined trees with red buds and pink sweet potatoes and iron rich blood red clay.
I didn't lift a finger, or yeah.

9

The past bounces to the future—or the present is that bounce.
I want to launch spectral red and do so and wherever it arrives it leaps into view.
It could be called foreground, or hot, or agricultural and vivid, or angry and amorous.
Lacking black, in red, as if without skin, the human of Mars can confess.
Wolf and woodpecker, throat and nut.

The past bounces to the future - or the present is that leap.
I want to run spectral red and I do that and whatever it reaches, it jumps into view.
It may be called foreground, or hot, or agricultural and living, or angry and loving.
A Mars person can admit to the lack of black, to wearing red, as if without skin.
Wolf and woodpecker, throat and nut.

10

I must begin as a biographer of a paramecium, then be a biographer of an onion.
My day is 24 hours 39 minutes and some seconds long.
I don eyeglasses, yellow-tinted, and see citrus everywhere.
A comma brings me to a full brief stop, curling back it turns back, surveying the path surreptitiously, or preparing to put down a root.
Everything has a future but eventually not as itself.

I must begin as a biographer of the paramecium, then become a biographer of the onion.
My day lasts 24 hours, 39 minutes and a few seconds.
I put on my yellow light glasses and I see citrus everywhere.
The comma leads me to a short point, curling up it turns, secretly surveying the path, or as if preparing to take root.
Everything has a future, but not in itself.

11

There are no orgies here in solitude, no rosy orifices except of rock and dust.
All convexities are harsh as iron shields.
Some kind of love then—at all, so long.
Already I am joining.
From excrement I can extrapolate squalor and from that feral cats with which I'll co-exist and also peanut butter, robins, diesel fuel, and ticks.

There are no orgies here alone, no pink holes except
stone and rust.
All protrusions are as rough as iron shields.
Any love is goodbye.
I am now member.
From excrement I can produce disgrace and from wild cats with which I will coexist and also from peanut butter, robins, diesel fuel, and ticks.

12

I am almost removed.
Red prairie, red arithmetic, red reflection, red snow.
My dreams hold death in diamond drag.
Until I had a third person, I didn't know of my existence.
What does recent mean if not decrease of momentum.

I'm almost done.
Red prairie, red arithmetic, red reflection, red snow.
My dreams hold their breath in diamond red tape.
Until I got a third party, I didn't know I existed.
What does the latter mean if not a decline in momentum?

13

Whose grass, whose permission, whose consciousness, whose urethra, scrotum, aorta, snatch will I discover and with what feet, fingers, teeth, tongue, nose, I ask, eyes closed.
Oyp, crinxk, dmout.
Should I list myself as once visible, then visible and audible and adaptable and capable and sexual and powerful and extreme?
The third person is consciousness, then come the red emotions and the second person appears.
The robin displays its Martian breast and martial stance—the robin: uprightest of birds.

Whose grass, whose permission, whose consciousness, whose urethra, scrotum, aorta, segment will I discover and with what feet, fingers, teeth,
tongue, nose, I ask, eyes closed.
Oyp, crinxk, dmout.
Should I include myself in the list as once visible, then funny and audible and flexible and capable and sexy and strong and extreme?
The third person is consciousness, then red emotions come and the second person appears.
The robin shows the Martian chest and the stance of a marine - the robin: the most honest of birds.

14

A green human would be not complementary but abhorrent to a red human of Mars.
Red human now, pinning accumulation.
I could spit a pit.
Livid tongue.
On a green planet I come decamouflaged—visible predator and visible prey.

The green man would not become a native, but would be disgusting to the man of Mars.
To the red man, multiplying.
I could spit out the pool.
Dead tongue.
I come to the green planet in camouflage - supposedly a predator, supposedly a prey.

15

I'll emit a prying quiver, I'll be a spying given.
This is the work of a suspended thumb.
Data will accrue, as to a central consciousness that, in registering it, makes the case for it: rampant raspberry, bestraddled ruby-studded portico, drug-laced date-rape grape-bestrewn party punch.
Look—it's still: a lithoform tiger toiled from milk and mud, silk and crud.
There can never be too great a distance between subject and object nor one sufficiently small.

I will create a thrill of curiosity, I will be an open-eyed gift.
This is the work of a deferred finger.
Data will appear, as if to the central brain, about what is being recorded
creates a case: rampant raspberries, an open gallery in ruby ​​buttons, drug rape of a date, a collective spirit in grapes.
Look - he is motionless: the lysoform tiger is restless from milk and dirt, silk and slush.
There cannot be too great a distance between the subject and the object, nor can it be significantly small.

16

The human (so it was called and then subsequently culled) transmits: I'm here and all's clear.
I can live a year kissing and killing in delicate wickedness.
Homo bellicosus and belly-cursed.
Primal.
Whiling and circling no different sun.

Man (so I was called, and then recalled)
conveyed: I’m here and everything is clean.
I can live a year kissing and killing in tender malice.
Homo bellicosus and the damned in the womb.
Primitive.
Temporary and circling is nothing other than the sun.

17

I turn to wistful lingua, wit-filled languor, keeping the ode at my toe tips.
Red malice!
I'm not willing to exchange epistemology for religiosity nor phenomenology for ontology.
Perhaps I belong or have belonged to another “I”-space or many others.
A human will play for apple, muscle, and zipper, and everyone else she or he has a loose eye for.

I become a bitter tongue, a wise languor, keeping ode on the tips of my toes.
Red anger!
I don’t want to change epistemology for religiosity, phenomenology
on ontology.
Perhaps I belong or belonged to another “I” - the cosmos or many others.
The person will play for the apple, strength and lightning, and whatever his or her eye falls on.

18

Roseate palms and pink soles, crystalline spit, open nose—all predicating person—and there's more.
Witness my attempt to vermillion the misery of history and to bleed the history of mystery.
Alone and along again I'm as invisible as a fart, incontrovertible as a stinking fact in the air.
I've long lived the martial etetera, eating cherries, tapping texts, sucking up and spinning straight, cop and cop out.
We will do it still: go for gold!

Light palms and pink soles, crystal spit, open nose - a completely predicable personality - and that’s not all.
See how I try to color the mystery of history and bleach the history of mystery.
Lonely and unambiguous - I am as visible as a fart, undeniable as an odorous fact in the air.
I have long survived the war etcetera, eating cherries, knocking texts,
sucking and wheeling directly, there is a cop and there is not.
Let’s do it for me anyway: go for the gold!

19

There is nothing that is pre-martial in the human.
I'll have Martian genitals.
Postulate: tiny speckled brown moth alighting suddenly on a page (or some other sweet small eventual randomly existential particular); counterproposal: irresolution; and another thing, yielding to a pause: a day in the life of a human of Mars.
Observing my ears, others (entering) will think I have come from snails.
Here's a torso, iron-rich and reddening.

There is nothing pre-war about the man.
I'll take the Martian genitals.
Postulate: a pockmarked tiny brown moth suddenly appearing on the page (or any other random cute particle); counterpostulate: hesitation; and also - decline to pause:
a day in the life of a man from Mars.
Looking at my ears, others (entering) will think that I came from snails.
Here is the body, rich in iron and turning red.

20

Nyam, prit, olkralipous—none of these yet apply; spon, crankle, elroghtuiskess, writ, leat, mors—these must pertain to a different world.
I come to learn to use the orchestral rhetorics, gestures, smiles, to point, to shrug, to wave, to scowl, to beckon, nudge, poke, caress, to pommel, pinch, to knee, to tackle, to embrace, to punch.
I will propagate the concept of sparkling as well as that of burbling and firing.
I am a human of Martian origin straining to overween and overhear and understand and undergo and survive and surround and surrender to no one and then to everyone, that, a mere fiction: sheer universality, post-terrestrial, pre-alluvial, de facto, anomalous.
Werldwarrygnos, once immanent now imminent, is this, I think, and kiss a knee.

Nyam, prit, olkralipous - none of this applies yet; spon, crankle, elroghtuiskess, writh, leat, mors - this must apply
to another world.
I came to learn orchestral rhetoric, gestures, smiles,
mark, squeeze, wave, frown, lure, push, laze, caress, hit, pinch, kneel, equip, embrace, stamp.
I will spread the idea of ​​gas as well as fire and flow.
I am a man of Martian roots, striving to exceed my expectations and hear more, and understand, and experience, and survive, and surround and surrender to no one and then everyone who is a fiction: pure
universality, post-earthly, pre-earthly, de facto, incorrect.
I think - werldwarrygnos, once inherent and now inevitable - this is it, and I kiss the knee.

21

I delight in appearance.
What's over an egg—what's above it?
Priorities, proprieties, pieties: there's a pattern and into it humans of a certain kind thread themselves.
There are many days that have not yet been broken.
When I breed, as I must, I will have children—seventeen or thirty-four: Belinda-Fred, Gyorgy-Clarice, Nanos-Shereen, Mustafa-Pilar, Françoise-Mamadou, Lyuba-Claude, Pablo-Katrin, Teura-Yonatan, Jude-Anahit, Anita-Liam, Saida-Sam, Giuseppe-Hoa, Ping-Miguel, Isabella-Finn, Oleg-Aayusha, Salma-Gang, and the finest and most furious of them all Lou Cipher Lucy Fir.

I rejoice in manifestation.
What's above the egg - what's above it?
Priorities, properties, authorities: there is logic, and people are in it
of a certain kind spread themselves.
There are many days that have not yet been broken.
When I multiply properly, I will have children - seventeen
or thirty-four: Belinda-Fred, Georgie-Clarice, Nanos-Sherine, Mustafa-Pilar, Francoise-Mamado, Luba-Claude, Pablo-Catherine, Teira-Yonatan, Jude-Anait, Anita-Liam, Saida-Sam, Giuseppe-Joa, Pin-Miguel, Isabella-Finn, Oleg-Ayasha, Salma-Gang, and the best and worst of them all, Lou Cifer Lucy Fer.

22

I can see through the blindfold and I can't see through the blindfold—both of these statements are true.
Humanity is scattered in the details slung on the ready ruddy rust.
Go, says the painter to the poet: go, and stop progress!
Ghost of a red fruit, gaze of a red face, words on a red page.
Humanity is fated to break off, lose cypher, lump sum.

I can see blindfolded and I can't - both statements are true.
Humanity is scattered in detail, thrown into the red
rust.
Go, the artist says to the poet: go and stop progress!
The ghost of the red fruit, the look of the red face, the words on the red book.
Humanity is doomed to break off, to lose the code, all at once.

23

Joys are tiny things, my soul has a flat tip, the subject-object binarism is misleading and untrue.
Phenomena are oriole.
Red argues by chapter and verse, road agrees, copper goes green.
I am marooned in courage.
I have the opening mind of a vermillion infant splashing in an agony of water.

Joys are tiny elements, my soul has a flat surface,
The binary of subject and object is false and misleading.
Phenomena - orioles.
Red disputes chapter and verse, the road agrees, copper
turns green. I am stained with courage.
I have an unfolding crimson mind, splashing infantilely in the agony of the water.

24

I rage like a mother when mold is on the salsa.
But the scarlet hill is plump, a subtle strategy, the horizon soft as belly fat.
Phenomena are woodpecker and cardinal and brought by goose.
Or, to put that another way: air is a medium for pathos and partnership: interpretation, portation, transack.
There are interplanetary condiments—the stuff of space: salsas, true, but also delights, jellies, mayonnaises, tapenades, mustards, marmalades, sauces, chutneys, ketchups, and jams.

I'm as furious as a mother when there's mold on the salsa.
But the scarlet mountain is convex, the strategy is skillful, the horizon is soft like belly fat.
Phenomena - woodpecker and cardinal, brought by geese.
Or, in other words: air as a means of pathos and partnership: transinterpretation, separation, bag of transfer.
There are interplanetary condiments - things of space: salsas, yes, but also
joys, marmalades, mayonnaise, tapenades, mustards, jellies, sauces,
chutneys, ketchups and jams.

25

I slurp, guzzle, dabble, delight: O dazzling geranium, silence on the purple pond!
I could crush this bug, exterminate its kind: I am the death in its life at the limits of visible light.
Yes: if you spread a red bed you'll pull pictures into your head.
An ode to exploiters and explorers from one of them yet to come begins above.
A foot is pressed in fellowship to the Martian crust.

I slurp, drink, splash, delight: oh dazzling geranium, silence on the purple pond!
I could crush this beetle, destroy its race: I am death in its life within the limits of visible light.
Yes: if you straighten the red bed, you will bring pictures to your head.
An ode to conquerors and discoverers from one of those who have not yet arrived,
starts higher.
The squad steps foot on Martian soil.

26

I lack a blank mind.
Spheres of color hover on a deep plane; the red darts out.
Doubt is not coterminous with limitation; I am hot and bent with it, I am out with it.
Doubt is the Martian's demise.
I want to be without traditional consciousness, saturnine, lunatic, stellar.

I lack a pure mind.
Spheres of color dangle from the deep plane; the red one flies out.
Doubt is not adjacent to the border; I'm hot and justified, that's how I come out.
Doubt is the end of the Martian.
I want to be without traditional consciousness, gloomy, crazy, starry.

27

A human puts spur to the moment and fingers to place.
Time is a series of unrelated sentences to be reread and then rewritten.
There is glue on the route.
Red goes to s/he who comes second.
Madly apparent, a human is perpetually in a phrase stage.

The man pushes the time and points to the place.
Time is a series of unrelated sentences to be reread and rewritten.
There is no glue along the way.
Red goes to whoever comes next.
Insanely obvious, the person is constantly at the stage of a phrase.

28

Wary, wearily, early—a human has two ears and purses them.
As a human I think to railroad my declarations with quandaries and queries.
O leisure, O lesion, O lesson.
It's said we'll have a filthy single purpose, half precisely, with toes and genitalia twinkling.
Always drink rose water with red meat, always spit the blood you could spill, never need nonsense but always allow it.

Weak, weak and early - a person has two ears and he hides them.
As a person, I am thinking of sending my statements by train along with misunderstandings and queries.
Oh vacation, Oh torture, Oh experience.
It is said that we will have only one dirty target, semi-lucid, with flickering genitals and toes.
Always drink rose water with red meat, always spit out the blood you can spit out, never need nonsense and always allow it.

29

Life is a vehicle, carrying us around, hurtling us between plants, deploying us as living advertisements.
Us: we arrived and now have to sell everything we brought with us in order to leave.
Dear Reader and Readers and All Enlivened by Green Chlorophyll or Red Blood or Viscous Yellow or Ochre or Brown Fluid or Fluids or Fluidity or Blue, can I sell you my ankle or greatgrandmother or broom?
The rocks are down: petrifaction cannot hold.
Life is mother-father to troupes of entrepreneurs juggling bonds and sticks and bills and stocks and I'll eat them: a dish of scarlet olives.

Life is a machine that takes us everywhere, pushes us between plants, delivers us like living advertisements;
Us: we came and now we must sell everything we had with us in order to leave.
Dear Reader and Readers and Everything Enlivened by Green
Chlorophyll or Red Blood or Evil Jaundice or
Ocher or Brown Liquid or Liquids or
Liquid or Blue, can I sell you my ankle or
great-great-grandmother, or a broom?
The stones have rolled off: the fossil is not holding together.
Life is the father and mother of a troupe of entrepreneurs juggling
bundles and sticks and bills and goods - and I will eat them: a dish
scarlet olives

30

Perhaps the insane fear they are incomprehensible and have a horror of not making sense, or perhaps they have a horror of doing so.
Posit ghost, posit flush plus flesh, then mates, neighbors, nations, then wars, or worship, oceans, anchors or acres or ankles on which dancers turn.
Some version of “I” is a cartoon pig, another a swiftness of a Naiad named Curl or populace failure.
Some time of myself is—what? certainly not a sentimental “not ever” or “when ever” or “back then.”
!

Perhaps - insane fear - they are unknowable and have horror
make no sense, or perhaps have horror.
For you, ghost, for you, sweat and flow, after - meetings, neighbors,
nations, after - war, worship, oceans, anchors or steppes, or
feet on which the dancer rotates.
Some version of “I” is in a cartoon pig, another is the speed of the Naiad named Curly Head, or the error of simplicity.
For a while I - what? definitely not the sentimental “no and will not be”, or “whenever”, or “then”.
!

31

Unpared self, softly, spoken, speaking.
Or do I only simulate dissent.
What is it that has consciousness, what is animate with perception, what experiences?
Pigs burrow, asphalt chokes, buildings arrogantly rise and crush.
That's what I am.

An involuntary body, softly, predicably, speaking.
Or am I just feigning disagreement?
What is it that has consciousness, that is animated by perception, that
feels?
Pigs dig, the asphalt chokes, buildings rise and fall arrogantly.
I am this.

32

To part, parse, patch, and please.
Tales turn over many small things—tales turn over the pleasure of knowing.
Water falls.
It is a social truism that anything that is happening may become explanatory, may make history.
A stranded unleashed anchor lies at rest now in its funereal future, whisked under rust beside a massive gear shaft robbed of torque.

Separate yourself, sort out the grammar, give pleasure.
Stories unfold in many small things—stories unfold in the joy of recognition.
The water is falling.
It is a social truism that everything that happens can become explainable, create a story.
The dry fallen anchor now lies in his funeral future,
indistinguishable under the rust of the large axle, devoid of rotation.

33

The multiple social classes, former and future, plus bumblebees coming through windows and plums enter imagination and occupy a temporary calm.
Dumb luck and drum bowls, thumb rhythms.
A red bedspread.
And now here is a thing with no clear utility, a thing without purpose, a thing just here, or it's meant as a perplexity, to perplex me, unless I can sell, trade, distribute, or share it.
Things for other things: the start of chronology.

Many social classes, past and future, plus bumblebees,
flying through windows and plums occupy the imagination and temporary
peace.
Dumb luck and drum beats, finger rhythms.
Red blanket.
But a thing without a specific task, a thing without a goal, it’s just there, or like a misunderstanding to confuse me if I can’t
sell, sell, distribute, share it.
Things for other things: start of the chronology.

34

O narcissism, collaboratively fulfilled!
O friendship!
O circular familiarity, which is, among other things (so many other things!) like an umbrella or mushroom or child's drawing of the blazing sun or like a marigold after rain or splattered egg yolk or an enormous chord in a minor key or like a human's chewing!
Living in a circle, moving around, escaping oneself, trying to forget the past, striving to remember the future.
Ludicrous chewing with lubricious malice between lewd jaws of lumpish meat in luminous light.

O narcissism performed jointly!
O friendship!
O circular acquaintance, which, among other things (so many!)
like an umbrella or a mushroom, or a child’s drawing in which there is a bright sun, or like marigolds after rain, or a spilled yolk, or a huge chord in a minor key, or like human chewing gum!
Living in a circle, spinning, avoiding myself, trying
forget the past, remember the future.
Ridiculous chewing gum and smooth malice between slutty jaws
heavy meat in clear light.

35

Lights begin to remove sound, name—therewith we have name-closure, nullity, the origination of sleep.
Time fingers fate, time fingers space.
War is bound to every moment like a bull to a boulder or a mote to a drop of dew.
At roar.
Humans are myths, at war with one another.

The lights begin to fade, the sound is so that we can have
closure of names, insignificance, origin of sleep.
Time indicates destiny, destiny indicates place.
War is tied to every moment like a bull to a boulder
or a stain to a drop of dew.

36

Arise, rice: I tend a rose: a rose and I.
Reality is composed, uncomposed, composed: no ant for itself, beetle through compost, king/queen on the heap: reality ahop.
Cherry trees without me and I without a kumquat tree.
Now other things must be acknowledged: a magnificent black mare, a crow of many trades, a white and orange kitten who knows all the songs and is a first class mimic, a peach, a flea, a good credit rating, the google map app.
The riddle persists: who am I?

Arise, rice: I cherish the rose: the rose and me.
Reality is invented, forgotten, invented: not a single ant for yourself
beetle through dung, king/queen on a pile: reality in a leap.
Cherry trees without me and me without the kumquat tree.
Now other things to consider: a magnificent black horse,
crow of many trades, a white and orange kitten who
knows all the songs and is a first-class imitator, peach, flea,
good credit rating,
google map app.
The riddle is still the same: who am I?

37

Things fall out, badly or well.
I depart, separating from myself and become a red image of it.
For a being like me—voluptuous but dainty, common as grass seed but unprepared, like one who reenters paradise and, finding it empty, seizes and fills it, feels it as hers or his since it is provisioning his or her febrile being, providing for his or her animal necessities—the future is an indispensable dimension.
But this is so far less than the more we can't even imagine that, as if I were solitary, “we” quakes.
Now for a library and then omniscience via wifi and scifi and street smarts, white wine, drought, handguns, dunk shots, hat tricks, STIs, size, sighs.

Everything falls apart, good or bad.
I leave, separate from myself and become his red image.
For a creature like me, sensual but graceful,
simple as grass seed, but raw, akin to that
who re-enters paradise and sees that it is empty,
grabs it and fills it, feels it as his own, because
he foresees his or her feverish existence,
supports his or her animal needs -
the future is an unwasteable dimension.
But for now it’s more likely less than more, we can’t do that
even imagine as if I were a lonely “we” shaking.
Now - for the library, then - omniscience via wifi
and science fiction and street smarts, white wine, drought,
weapons, wet shots, hat tricks,
HIV, volume values, signs.

38

The head is a northern orphan without an itinerary.
Objects are forethought.
Red fingers of white Martian, right pinky to right ear, left forefinger to right tit.
A general with his back out blushes at the frailty seen through field glasses: an inspector of Mars.
A chant goes up, a chart, of a human with arse.

The head is a northern orphan with no direction.
Objects - forethought.
Red fingers of a white Martian, faithful pinkness to the right ear, left index finger of the right breast.
The General with his ruddy burden is visible in the field grass: Inspector of Mars.
The song rises, a diagram of a man and his ass.

39

Say that I am reproved for some reason—chastised—and I agree, I agree: that was awful, what I did, what I am; is this what it means to “have a bad conscience,” and, if so, why do I have one?
The whole wing of the human hand, its feathers ruffled, is said to be a voiceless courier, striking a hard blow.
Bound where and by what, for what, to what?
Ash, driven into crevasses, notches, holes, stuck, chill, arcane: it has all but lost its struggle.
Rocks are bending, and the orb, remarkable red, is verging on black, as a dingo verges on dog, or male on female, ice on water, clout on charisma.

Tell me that for some reason I am condemned - punished - and I will agree,
I agree: what I did was terrible, what I am is terrible; Is this what it means to “have a bad conscience”, and if so, why do I have it?
Целое крыло человеческой руки, его тревожные перья, говорят, есть немой курьер, который обрушивает тяжёлый удар.
Обречённый где, и чем, и за что, и чему?
Пепел в расселине, зарубки, дыры, западня, холод, тайна:
всё утратило хватку.
Камни скругляются, и шар, замечательно красный, сродни черному, как динго
сродни собаке или муждчина женщине, лед воде, власть харизме.

40

Disaster attracts; it roves, tempts, pulls at lives, draws whole societies into ruin, sucks from the vanishing points of being.
Continuity intercedes, the ceaseless breaks in.
A human loses itself in a harmful emotion framed by movements of air discernable in fluctuations of red.
Now Marta and Marshall, Marianna and Mary: they climb down.
By “they” I mean “twice.”

Катастрофа привлекает; она переходит, соблазняет, придаёт жизням усилие, низводит целые общества до руин, высасывает последние крохи жизни.
Продолжительность вступается, прекращение врывается.
Человек теряет себя в болезненной эмоции запечатлённой
движениями воздуха, различимыми в колебаниях красного.
Теперь Марта и Маршалл, Марианна и Мэри: они карабкаются вниз.
Под «ними» я имею в виду «дважды».

41

We desire grief—mourning without aftermath.
The quiet is air, the setting is sun; the red on which I rest is land and blood of some long past always passing into my presence.
We suffer disappointment, dismay, disaster: severed from placement and situation, severed from permissibility, severed from fate.
But what is this we?
Nothing repeats—nothing again.

Мы желаем горя — оплакивания без исхода.
Тих ветер, садится солнце; красное, на котором я сижу — это земля
и кровь давно прошедшего всегда просачивается в моё присутствие.
Мы страдаем от разочарования, страха, катастрофы: раздельные
от места и положения, раздельные от вседозволенности, раздельные
от судьбы.
Но что — мы?
Ничто не повторяется — вновь ничто.

42

There are many rules for multiple moods: pessimism or skepticism or cynicism or doubt with optimism or stubbornness or naïveté or sanguinity switches roles, and hence we have the naïve skeptic, the cynical optimist, the sanguine doubter, and some of these are equine, some bovine, some canine, some ovine, some feline, some porcine, some caprine, and some are us, unbacked, awake, chanting “O language, o lexicon, let me sleep!”
Punctuation is plentiful.
Head an engine, body a ship—carrying what?: water, iron, viscera, calcium, adrenalin, bacteria, oxygen, urges, potassium, urine, blood, life—that kind of stuff as or along with ballast, fuel, machinery, and cargo, and a captain or capitano, capitanessa: a subject, an “I.”
“I” now has a computer, an instrument for scanning, search, calculation, contact.
But there are still stars so there is still fate.

Есть множество правил для многих настроений: пессимизм или
скептицизм или цинизм или сомнение с налётом оптимизма или
упрямство или наивность или настроение сангвиников переключают роли, и, значит, у нас есть наивный скептик, циничный оптимист,
сангвинистичный сомневающийся — некоторые из них лошадиные,
другие бычьи, собачьи, овечьи, кошачьи, свиные, козлиные, а некоторые — мы, не подкреплённые ничем, бодрствующие, поющие
«О язык, о словарь, дай мне уснуть!»
Пунктуация множественна.
Голова мотор, тело корабль — несущий что? Воду, железо, внутренности, кальций, адреналин, бактерии, кислород, срочность,
калий, мочу, кровь, жизнь — подобное вместе с балластом, топливом,
механизмами, грузом, капитаном или capitano, capitanessa: субъект, «Я".
У "Я» теперь есть компьютер, инструмент для сканирования, поиска, счета, связи.
Но все еще есть звезды и все еще есть судьба.

43

When the next hour or minute comes, how could anyone recognize it as the future?
The future arrives bearing something futuristic—a new kind of battery, a substitute for the sun.
That magnificent star-strewn vault, under which we dreamed last night and that seemed to promise us a beautiful day today, hasn't kept its word.
True; but what if the fog, which is hovering above the ground, collapses from the sheer weight of the moisture it's carrying?
Humans fall out, have a falling out.

В следующий час или минуту, как может кто-то сказать, что вот будущее?
Будущее приносит с собой нечто будущее — новый тип батареи,
замену солнцу.
Это усыпанное звёздами убежище, под которым мы спали вчера,
и которое обещало нам, казалось, прекрасный день, не сдержало слово.
Это так; но что, если туман, колеблющийся над землей, обвалится
от слабого веса влаги, которую носит?
Люди высыпают и рассыпаются.

44

A planet comes whole, home to a system, but can it carry details that disobey the system?
A stream of elements, of turbulence, of petulance, of elephants.
An elephant can't float like a cloud over a savannah, but—there!—we have pictured one doing so: have we defied the system?
Indifference loses us, and all that advances chases after the sun.
From the spheres comes music and with it a lyric: “Now a pause, now a rose, and now a small coffin, Bitch!”

Планета цела, дом системы, но может ли нести детали, не подчиняющиеся?
Поток элементов, турбулентности, раздражения, слонов.
Слон не может плавать, как облако над саванной, но -
Here! — мы такое запечатлели: бросили ли мы вызов системе?
Безразличие нас теряет, и всё развивающееся преследует солнце.
От сфер идёт музыка и с ней — слова: «Вот пауза, вот роза,
а вот маленький гроб, Сука!»

45

What hollows us so profoundly that we have an interior into which we can descend?
The future comes, seeking knowledge with its limbs, ears, and eye holes, to which minutiae respond and are deemed an explanation while the human mourns its loss of magnitude, its lack of anything entire.
Let's say the past arrives: a row of horses, doors, each one of which or whom is a soldier: a militant of Mars.
There ensues baffled slaughter spread on water, patterned individuals, variables of time.
What if, on the other hand, it drifts over a desert and rises into the upper atmosphere where, as a chemist might put it, it dehydrates—dry slaughter, aridity untimed?

Что так глубоко опустошает нас, что в нас есть пещера, куда спускаемся?
Будущее приходит, ищет знаний и их конечности, уши, глазницы,
которым отзываются мелочи, и положено объяснение, пока
человек оплакивает утрату величины, недостаток чего-то целого.
Скажем, приходит прошлое: ряд лошадей, дверей, каждый из них — солдат: солдат Марса.
Вот следуют — беспорядочная резня растекается по воде, шаблонные личности, переменные времени.
Что, если, с одной стороны, это двинется через пустыню и поднимется на высшие слои атмосферы, где, как сказал бы химик,
происходит обезвоживание, сухая резня, лишённая времени сухость?

46

Surreptitious, sub rosa, underground, but not unphenomenal; segmented, rich in chemoreceptors, hermaphroditic: such is a marsworm.
A planetary pulse—a pause, and then we resume our relentless living
A flicker in the present of a discontinuous sunrise.
What will I do if I wait and see, what kind of pause would that be?
Lacking memory, one would be unable to perceive motion, unable in time to see what's real.

Тайный, sub rosa, подземный, но в пределах феномена;
раздельный, обогащённый в артериях, гермафродит: таков
марсианский червь.
Планетарный пульс — пауза, а затем мы продолжаем нашу
неустанную жизнь.
Дрожание в присутствии пресечённого восхода.
Что я буду делать, если дождусь, что это будет за пауза?
Без памяти нельзя воспринять движение,
нельзя и во времени увидеть реальность.

47

Waves of saying, waves of seeing.
Well ray and frost rag and battle: we have ourselves an ethnic Martian.
Circle power turns, circle panic serves: a social circle, a city circle: blast drawn blood purr, story lock, malediction, work: work in a narcotized drift, in owlish exchange.
Description, which always includes an element of retrospection, is nonetheless forward looking: more blood purpose.
From far away drifts the sound of a white small adorable yapping fluffy defiant curious ownerless male dog—abandoned, castrated, feral, fawning, he howls in the dark at Mars.

Волны сказанного, волны видимости.
Луч колодца и ковер холода, и борьба: мы заполучили этнического
Марсианина.
Круглая сила вращается, круглая паника служит: круг общения,
городской круг: урчание крови, вызванное порывом ветра,
фокус на истории, проклятие, работа: работа в наркотическом
сдвиге, в совиную смену.
Описание, что всегда включает элемент рестроспекции,
всё же смотрит вперёд: ищет крови.
Издалека движется звук чудесного маленького пушистого тявкающего беглого любопытного пса без хозяина — покинутого,
кастрированного, дикого, раболепного — он воет на Марс во тьме.

48

What is disappointment if not awareness that a joy one has received is being taken back.
Culinary parsing, red parsimony, panned parsley.
If I were very great, I'd command furrow, old proverbs, and red bread.
Already I know how to swallow spinach and how to rise from the ground, dusting the rust from my butt after the long lust of a waking sleep.
Already triumphantly I feel I am living on an exalted plane, as, seeing the vast trees blown by the wind, boughs leaping, trunks swaying, I recognize the power and am exultant: exalted by exultance, or exalted by consciousness of my capacity for exultance.

Что есть разочарование, если не осознание того, что данная радость
будет взята назад.
Анализ блюд, красная скупость, петрушка варёная.
Будь у меня величие, я бы руководил колеёй, старыми пословицами,
красным хлебом.
Я уже знаю, как глотать шпинат и как произрастать из земли,
осыпая ржавчину пылью моего зада после долгой жажды пробуждающегося сна.
Уже с триумфом я ощущаю, что я живу на высоком самолёте,
поскольку, видя большие деревья, сметённые ветром, склонившиеся
ветви, качающиеся стволы, я узнаю силу и сам возвышаюсь:
возвышенный возвышенностью, или возвышенный сознанием моей
способности возвыситься.

49

I am a teacher of Mars, advocating math and pathos.
The despicable, delicate, cyclical damp.
Always or.
Lament, rage, and hilarity: manifestations of loss of control.
Straining agonistic genitals, and all the rest: is this “morality”?

Я учитель Марса, адвокат математики и патетики.
Отвратительный, нежный, цикличный туман.
Всегда или.
Жалоба, ярость, веселость: манифестации утраты контроля.
Приближающиеся агонизирующие гениталии, и всё остальное: это ли «мораль»?

50

And yet I'm a juvenile giant—somewhat vulpine, though also concubine, visibly pinkish-raced and bipedal and inedible—my bellicosity only in this context suppressed—and, like this one, I'll fill the next stubborn moment that occurs with animation.
Nations excel at vengeance, the sexual and financial and racial and architectural pounce and possession.
But every particular that has endured its history has earned its theory.
The runnels barely undulate, the range suffers semantic delay.
I drift, drag, draw: red mouth behind green lips, gnawing wilted minutes.

И всё же я — подросток-гигант — что-то вроде волка, хотя ещё и
любовницы, отчетливо розоватая раса, двуног и несъедобен -
моя воинственность здесь лишь подавлена — и, как этот, я заполню
следующий упрямый момент, возникающий живо.
Нации превосходят в реванше, сексуальном, денежном, расовом
и архитектурном наскоке и обладании.
Но всё, что по отдельности длило свою историю, эту теорию
накопило.
Каналы едва шевелятся, расстояние подвергается смысловому удалению.
Я дрейфую, тяну, притягиваю: красный рот за зелеными губами,
грызущий слабые минуты.

51

This is that primary world, red.
I can't get a grip on it, my similes don't stick, its crimson has no period.
I yearn for green peas, since it is with green peas that I might most subtly learn the tactics of revenge.
I have no snout.
I am incarnadined; the world is washed on me.

Вот тот первый мир, он красен.
Не могу его ухватить, мои сравнения не прилипают, его
алый цвет не имеет периодов.
Я жажду зелёного гороха, ведь это с ним я могу легко
выучить тактику мести.
У меня нет рыла.
Я отмечен аловатым цветом; мной омывается мир.

52

I had no plans to come; I never knew I had gone.
There was only one, so it was general: milkmaid of Mars, plumber of Mars, academician of Mars, mayor of Mars, secretary of Mars, Martian chef and sous-chef and dishwasher, mechanic of Mars, its poet, mathematician, historian, army, shopkeeper, and housewife.
Pleasure without leisure—a human of Mars is an orifice.
If there were things to name, I'd apply Sparrow-Wide, Vise-Anvil, Wire-Arrow, Mars-Crow, Angle, and I could go on, my naming capacities are endless.
The world is an oyster and I am a Valentine.

У меня не было в планах прийти; я не знал, как ушёл.
Было одно, и потому главное: доярка Марса, сантехник Марса,
марсианский глава и его заместитель, и посудомойка, механик
Марса, его поэт, математик, историк, армия, продавец, домохозяйка.
Удовольствие без устали — человек Марса это отверстие.
Если бы было, что называть, я бы предложил Широкий как Воробей, Тиски Наковальни, Стрела Струны, Ворона Марса, Угол,
и я могу продолжать, мои способности называть безграничны.
Мир — устрица, а я — Валентин.

Coda

“I sought to express with red and green the terrible human passions.”
Vincent van Gogh
“And you, red judge, if you were to tell out loud all that you have already done in thought, everyone would cry, 'Away with this filth and this poisonous worm.'”
Friedrich Nietzsche

Кода
«Я пытался с помощью красного и зелёного выразить ужасные страсти людей».
Винсент ван Гог

«И ты, красный судья, если бы ты мог сказать вслух всё, что замыслил, каждый бы возопил: "Иди прочь с этой грязью и
этим червём ядовитым».
Friedrich Nietzsche