XLVI. Wine Drunk Visions-Passages to Mexico

How many overturned passages must this pen exhibit, extinguish in the curvature of letters. How loathsome this night has become, how ministerly. In the crevice of this great cave, question the longings for jungles, mosquitos and malaria, sierras instead of mountains. How mystic, where I can lend myself out as anyone’s pack-mule. How I long for that wine drunk vision, passages to Mexico with sober breath. I am simple-minded enough to head south with no direction, stopped at no borders with my flagged passport, but let through every border, a criminal. Am I done contending with this Northern solitude. I inherit theories set in place about the sun from Arthur Rimbaud.

Elle est retrouvée,
Quoi? — L’Éternité.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil

I best translate it into Spanish, and learn to speak it with a thick and heavy accent. Tan myself like leather and forget this gringo getup. Who is it that is on board for happiness? I want a mudhouse and a clay oven where my brown-eyed, brown-haired senorita stetches out tortillas. Full of indegenous features, little Mayans, Tibetans, in this worldly of worlds, does the tribe matter. I’m stuck in a world of appearances and associations. Diamond cutting fingers planting corn and mashing maize, little Buddhas wearing masks in the Lacandon Jungle, and forever foreign to me is the smell of growing coffee. What I drink here is the spit of second-rate, still paying homage however to the unnamed farmer. The twinkling, tequilla or rum Buddha, a couple pesos, drinks his shrine and yells out a Mexican Katsu! Spilling his rice and beans in front of starving street dogs, never more possesed of any wrong doings, walks and wanders all alone, but is known throughout al the tiny villages as Little Prajna.

Namu Amida Butsu

(translated from the French )It is found again.What? Eternity.
It is the sea
Gone with the sun.

L’Éternité (1872)

Arthur Rimbaud

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