you build an altar, you find a quiet place
or maybe a place so noisy and intense and full of life and light that it can hold you in distraction, you'll need a while
you set out your best satins
or else some old ripped jeans and all the other refuse of a life unlived and of the elations you've always witnessed in others
your practice forgetfulness - nature will lend a hand
you block your sense of smell completely
(years later you might want to look back and take stock and adjust your bearings
it might prove difficult
possibly deadly
but you already knew that)
and you slaughter all your wants
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem