The Moment of my Death

-"The life that is died and the death that lives", they always encounter at the same juncture that houses Beings but it isn't an ontology, it is the pure and raw existence itself but in the cosmological sense in which deities and mortals share the same characteristics of existence in their indeterminatedness"- Eugen Fink & Martin Heidegger, "Lectures on Parmenides" (Chapter on Hegel and Speculative Thinking).

A parallel screen that sets the boundaries in between the reason and the non-reason
And divides sights as though they were cut out of the lanscape with a stick of life
That creates the painting of dead nature with the raw materials of one's very life
The moment of the betrayal shares its most benign timeliness and arrives no later than it lives
It requires no presentations, unlike the Devil... It is the ruler of the divine and the profane
The intensity of the time, of the Hegelian transmogrification of the phase (das Moment) into the moment (der Moment) when bodies sleep away their lot of memories in a fresh ruin
And attempt no retrieval, it's the point whither memory returns not
In the shape of a young body and the callous summon of human nature
The pleasurable murder of the companion takes place before this very screen
He is devoured by the wild beasts and as the Sons of Korach, "ובני קרח לא מתו"
They just "disappear", not without knowing this means just as much as worldliness
Insofar as the world is the gathering of the love in its puremost time, in its end
And the borderline situation occurs with a transformation
Of the disgust for the immaculate body that heads toward Golgotha
In an enterprise of twenty centuries and more, escaping Orion at night
Awakening past the pink-fingered lust of Theseus' mother
To praise, "A Song of Degrees", for the Lord of Hosts, and their ghost
Yet it is almost Shabbat, and David cannot desist for the sake of the world
"I shall keep thy kingdom safe, Hamlet"
But the bridges have been broken and the rifts set apart in between shadows
The silences too large to hide in the speeches of the coffee-houses
The outrage violent, contra himself... Unable to immediate
The actualization is a repetition, of Kant's dead nature
And the messenger doesn't arrive,
Doesn't arrive.

This is the moment of Death
To be read aloud, before an audience
It is like the Parsifal,
No poetry ot philosophical treatise
But a musical drama, like "The Frogs"
But the choirs soak in the despair
Of having chosen their own lines
Boarded their trains toward imposed destinations
That can never be reached
The hatred is the transformation
Of vexation, of erotic pleasure, of apathy.

The Calvinist family remains punctual
Have their dinners on time with military precision
With military precision
With the Logic
Of Love
That goes forth from the world
Unable to locate any objects
Any faces
Entangled in anonymous lust
Searching for the note
Expecting the letter
Or the farewell
Of the messenger again
Circumventing the castle
In the most morbid despair
That soaks the waters into notebooks
Undressing lies, older and wiser
Than the discoveries
Than the meadows
Than hay.

The brooks grow expensive
And the landscapes from the altar
In Dominus Flevit
A golden urgency
That escapes in mourning
That flees
From finitude
Into this musical drama
And the moment of my Death
Is this Parsifal
With high pitches
In every station of the way
From the Sepulcher to Golgotha,
You see? I resurrect in reverse.
The moment of my Death
The mark of my father
Of the tragic Judaism and Protestantism
Of fathers and mothers
That winds up in a mediocre drawing
In unfinished postcards

It's impossible to feel otherwise
The phase and the event are the same
They're a way
The way of some stones
The way of the Fall
And Paradise is a carnival
Of mourners
Of churches
Of standing crosses
Past the threshold of the day

The plurality is replaced by the hope.