It's not that they want you to stop spinning in a rotating chair at a different Poem by Martín Gambarotta

It's not that they want you to stop spinning in a rotating chair at a different
speed to the distant world, they have no objection to you feeling
you're in an original orbit spinning on its own axis, nor that afterwards you open
pensively a cylindrical can of pâté making it turn in your hand, they
too sometimes spin their globes and stop them with an index finger
to ponder a while on the region they've picked by chance
they have no problem with your murmured desire about
whether what's spinning is the can or the can-opener, about the jagged disc
that comes away from the rest of the can once it's open, they don't want to see
your plans for another spring (however you call it), nor have any real interest
in planting a satellite tracking device on you to follow your steps
around the avenues of Atlantic coastal resorts with their
video-bars, record stores, telephone centres, nor do they place
those cars hired by search engines that go out with 360-degree
cameras on the roof to photograph everything, they don't want to know the
tunes stored on your little chrome-steel and white plastic music
player, they're not necessarily up to speed with the theory that says the anomaly
isn't being disconnected from reality but rather, at a macro level, being too
connected, nor do they expect that by reality we understand an assault
craft slowly slipping into Mesopotamia, that by reality we understand camellias overexcited by the wind, by reality a group of Ethiopian sons making out they're waiting for a minibus on a specific ring road having lost all notion of
specificity, with their ruined parkas, passing around a cigarette, pressing
into the tips of their fingers the teeth of the bottle top they just
opened, they don't call into question the fragile night-time camaraderie they created
a while ago eating chicken hearts on wooden skewers, they don't contextualize
that manifesto, they don't theorise about tumescence, they don't read everything that
the VP of Bolivia says, they don't synthesize tenacity, they don't camp outside the
doors to Abyssinia, they don't bait semi-tame leopards with a shake of their
tambourines, they don't burn tabloids, they don't sleep with their hands crossed
on their chest watching adverts, they aren't worried that you go about,
with sweet slow care, the pillow still marked on your face, dragging your heels
around the aisles of a supermarket looking for a specific brand of Japanese
instant noodles, and nor do they want to stop you
preparing, your mood as cool as an ice-flow, that soup before sitting down
to read a guide to perfecting evasive manoeuvres, or whatever,
no, no, no, none of that, no
they just want you to die.