When we get off the cab, he looks at Maryam "Did you read the Howl" he says. She comes to my left so that I can hear her soft sound coming out of her lusty curly lips, through her pearly teeth which are always like biting her sweet lower lip. "all night, I, in fact, listened to Ginsberg himself, I, think the translation is goofy" "Yeah, exactly, I think it's impossible to…" I start counting my steps to concentrate. Their meditation must have been something like this. Anywhere, everywhere. We are all observers of our generations. But this city, this blind smoking tomb, is devouring us all. This devourer of all, of time even, makes wrestling meaningless for there's nobody but everybody-thing. It makes running impossible because there is no end to it. It is always reminding you of her presence, penetrating into your dreams. She never orgasms though she's ejaculating in faces. She's Ginsberg's Moloch and more. She's Elliot's Waste Land and more. She is a he and she is not, a no country for his soldiers who sob like lonely old men in its parks, an invisible mad Coliseum crying out loud for death, who sentences all and everybody to the corner, and does that for fun, and waits for you to laugh, and makes you weep when you don't, an every minute too much, a whom I abandon.
In the school yard, there's this boy who is always high with Mary Juana, and a book of Gilles Deleuze or one of Kerouac's. The school building is not a big one. When he wants to smoke, he goes to the back of this building but his joint in his hands, he reappears in the Duck Square of yard. I always watch him from the classroom window, reading out loud something which is always Ginsberg. And his only audience, the Duck, listens carefully. It doesn't even move. It's now a year and a half. He had some other audiences from time to time but now it's a long time that he gives his speeches and poetry reading freely to whomever come who may. When I finally decided to invite Alireza, Maryam and Mitra he played differently, sat at one of those stone chess tables and though those stone tables and benches were snow-iced wet, he put his copies and papers on the snow and started writing, in fact I'm sure he was translating but we saw no dictionaries. So I dared ask him if he wanted us to get him a dictionary but he played deaf.
to be continued...
