Boston Review
CURRENT ISSUE
table of contents
FEATURES
new democracy forum
new fiction forum
poetry
fiction
film
archives
ABOUT US
masthead
mission
rave reviews
contests
writers’ guidelines
internships
advertising
SERVICES
bookstore locator
literary links
subscribe

 

Search this site or the web Powered by FreeFind


Site Web



 

 

Letter to Artaud

Joseph! Joseph! He called him. He built froth
for himself in the bread. With a bibelot of salt, with two
bibelots of salt. He wrung out his breath.

Rocks were cutting. Jacob, if he’s in a box, doesn’t
jump. He picks. He picks and pokes, sows mortal
dew. The little ball rotates in the tonic. The sun

curdles before it gets white-hot. Two wells, one
below the other. There was glitter, with a membrane,
with little hills. They didn’t spill over, they lay

in the belly of the earth like two fat drunken snakes.
They didn’t touch Robert. Robert, Jacob,
Joseph, we all got our teeth into it. Muzzles kept

falling around thighs like foxes. They solidified
into ceramics. Ceramics are the eyes of cathedrals. Under
the foot of every elephant is an eye. The eye is harder

than the fan. The pheasant covers your
eyes. Its chest is a thick plank. Then I yanked terraces
out of the hills. I yanked out every grain of rice. The meat in

aspic and the stench open. Cotton rags absorb linen.
Then we pull them out with a cord. With a musical ear
from the well below, and from the one above with a bucket

and a cord. Trictrac. The skin rubs itself out. When the cube
spins on the flat unmarked field, it spins for the last time.
The oblong triangle draws itself. Then a round

token drops out. This one jams already. This one jams
already. At the same time soothes. I hope,
I really really hope, someone stuffs the heads of the Indians

with vinyl plastic. Only then will they be able to stick out
their tongues, first at the backs of the ants, then at
the bone of the sun. The bone hangs like a monument.

--Tomaz Salamun

(translated from the Slovenian by Christopher Merrill and the author)



Copyright Boston Review, 1993–2005. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.

 | home | new democracy forum | fiction, film, poetry | archives | masthead | subscribe |