Tinkerbell si Rozatoarea - un episod de incluziune sociala

Astazi, zi mohorata de decemvrie, m-am intalnit la fumoarul cotidianului unde lucrez cu Sobolanul de Camp, jurnalist la Externe. La mai bine de un an de cand m-am pogorat la redactie spre a aduce pacea intre subiect si predicat, Sobolanul m-a intrebat cand am sosit si care mi-e prenumele. Dupa introducerile succinte, s-a interesat de CV-ul meu, ca apoi sa-mi ofere sfaturi pentru ascensiunea profesionala, acuzand pe traseu si nepotismul care viciaza piata muncii, inclusiv maculatura datorita careia ne-am cunoscut. I-am raspuns ca eu am ajuns la corectura prin concurs si pe merit. N-a perceput autoironia si mi-a raspuns, mandru de ecusonul sau, ca corectura e prea putin semnificativa ca sa se mai oboseasca careva cu favoritisme. Deconcertata de lipsa lui de umor, i-am raspuns ca e, oricum, o faza. El a aprobat ca din ceva tot trebuie sa supravietuiasca omul. Chiar daca cevaul in cauza presupune ca omul sa dea din pedale prin raioanele umile ale trustului, unde trece anu fara sa-l vada careva, deci e ca si cum nu exista sau e o pura himera. Sobolanul inspira fum cu o exaltare sumbra, de parca se straduia sa-si atinga notele cele mai joase ale sfincterului. I-am vorbit despre un examen pe care-l pregatesc pentru a progresa financiar, dar el a insistat ca tot ponturile lui sunt smecheria. Am omis sa-i spun ca am colaborari cu o revista culturala si ca stiu totusi germana pe care el mi-o elogia cu rictus compatimitor dupa ce i-am explicat ca examenul cu pricina e-n deja banala limba a lui Monty Python. Bilant: el a fost suficient de binevoitor incat sa ma lase sa trag cu coada ochiului la ghidul sau practic pentru reusita in viata. Si e cu atat mai nobil gestul cu cat nici macar nu-l rugasem! Cand ti se ofera ceva fara ca tu macar sa ai habar ca-ti trebuie, e o onoare, ba mai mult, o revelatie, degetul mijlociu al providentei! Iar cand asemenea pilde vin de la ultima fiinta pe care te-ai fi gandit s-o idolatrizezi, e o sublima lectie despre umilinta. Zau asa... Este reconfortant cand cineva al carui chip pare proaspat trecut prin tocatorul de carne, care fumeaza pentru a da un alibi estetic behaitului nativ si bosumflat pe limba-mama crede cu tarie ca ai numai de-nvatat de pe urma fumatului in tandem cu el. Ehei, e plina mosia de sobolani de camp... Cum? Nesimtiti? Nuuuuu... incisivi, s-avem pardon! Ma-nclin in fata eufemismelor.

Mankind in a loop

The fences are covered in must
Shriveled throughout their adherence to fur and fairies
Scribbled with centuries-old stories of mankind
Mankind shrunk under binoculars
Mankind in a loop with a name different from its other portraits
Nonetheless
All of them conjured in the same definition of shape
It's past tense reproduced
Somewhere in a bulb
Or not
Who knows which the round is?
Us, out of their massive mania
Or them, outside our microscopic one?
The torturers and healers, two opposite-looking breeds
All sat together at the same last supper
All winners
All people
Outside me
Us
Somewhere incoherent with nothing but an oxygen mask on
Unaltered by the cries and interspersions of time
Watchers of a vocabulary we've come to learn the words of
Speakers of consonants we have not yet to scrape reality of
B-level pantomimes
Builders of sciences inside a dolly house
Vicars of recipes and clay gourmets
I
I'm forging fences just to see what I need to escape
My favorite playground
My deadliest playground
A medicine woman deprived of corpse
Who belittles her blankness around swollen red dots
Just for the thrills of seeing the scab reformed
And the moon restored in the smooth amplitude of a face
A self-killer, a self-curer
My repetition for no part
I
The puppet always with a fake thermometer on.

Mia and the gigolo

When I came to you that night
I knew someone else had been there
My mother…
It wasn't you I wanted,
But her I was trying to reach
Her sadness under your skin
My father…
Their long encounters on your ribs
Their separations too
Somewhere between your thighs…
And was the salty feel of your chin
Her sourest memory of all?
Me…
Where do I begin?
In the oblivion framed from your right nipple
To its red counterpart?
In her tongue dressing up the void in spit and lust?
Will I be me without her in your arms?
Will you and I manage to equal two?
When everything I see in you
Is covered in her rust?
Could your pores answer me correctly:
Where is the spot where I failed to resume?

An English guide in losing your daughter

The pink lay dormant in a belly
It may as well have been for an eternity
For all it cared,
Aging without becoming was hardly a problem
If not a privilege per se
But when it did come out, months later
It became she
And she become her,
As did the black locks she just loved to see
In the gigantic oblong mirror
That hanged on her tall, snow-white wall.
Her mother gave her a peculiar name
And dyed her hair red…
The problem was,
She could not recognize her after that
So she began to search for her all over
Becoming tragically aware of prepositions,
Testing each,
Wondering which would turn out the winner:
Behind, beneath
Up
On, under
In, out?
Her money was on in
Although the in she knew
Was her bare misconception, e.g.:
In her room
In the phonebook
In the papers
In the limelights
In blood stains on some highway
Or another…
No wonder she never found her.
And all this time the little one
Was lying pliant on the dinning sofa
Right beside her,
All covered in fake hair
Dressing herself in a big pretty ribbon
So she could fly herself off
To some man’s birthday party.

Blue

I hate to linger on this lip
This no-land that easily puckers
The tightening that awakes my grand-fear
My nature has not yet been acquainted
With instinct
Nor has it ever derived pleasure from milk
Although I owe my teeth to it
A sturdy prole – my being still
The letters I have learnt to tag kitchen jars with
Did little to remove the metal
From the delights of eating
The sweating man who wears a smeared cap
Pushes the handle bars inside the steel blue
His stare having lost edges
I fear
I fear becoming once again
My stitches interrupted