BIBLIOMACHY

Yes,I would
Yes, I would fling my book on the floor.

Yes, I would
Yes, I would hurl it out of the window,
even out of the closed window of my oppressive room,
through the slats of the Venetian blinds:
let them shred its incongruous quires,
let sentences, words, morphemes, phonemes
gush forth, beyond recomposition into discourse;
through the misty panes,
and if they are of unbreakable glass
so much the better,
hurl the book and reduce it to photons,
undulatory vibrations,
polarized spectra;
through the wall,
let the book crumble into molecules and atoms
passing between atom and atom
of the reinforced concrete,
breaking up into electrons, neutrons, neutrinos,
elementary particles more and more minute;
through the telephone wires,
let it be reduced to electronic impulses,
into flow of information,
shaken by redundancies and noises,
and let it be degraded
into a swirling entropy.

Yes, I would
Yes, I would like to throw it out of the house,
out of the block,
beyond the neighbourhood, beyond
the city limits,
beyond the state confines,
beyond the national community,
beyond Western culture,
beyond the continental shelf,
beyond the atmosphere,
the biosphere,
the stratosphere,
the field of gravity,
the solar system,
the galaxy,
the cumulus of galaxies,
to succeed in hurling it beyond
the point the galaxies have reached
in their expansion,
where spacetime has not yet arrived,
where it would be received by nonbeing,
or, rather,
the not-being which has never been
and will never be,
to be lost in the most absolutely
guaranteed undeniable negativity.

Merely what it deserves,
neither more nor less:
my book.

But no. I seek a pattern,
I need my book and the route
that must surely be there
and the direction it will surely carry me,
my book:
the opening of an abstract and absolute space
and time in which I can move,
following an exact, taut trajectory -
and yet, when I now seem to be succeeding,
I am here to realize I am motionless,
blocked, forced to repeat everything
from the beginnig.