"Borges," or "Borges."
"Borges."
"'The Book of Sand,' now that's back in the old days when I
used to love Borges, Luis Borges, Jorge Luis Borges.
I still do, but I don't read him anymore,
or I haven't for a long time--
a long time.
Red boy thinks a long time, a long time,
once upon a long time ago when he used to read Borges.
That's a hmm thought, actually, he thought.
Those days and times and moments are rare these days.
I wonder if Borges ever said something like that.
Back in my once upon a time days, he was a genius.
That wasn't like anyone else--
you know, an ordinary human man but someone
who was made not by God or God-like forces
but by imagination, by imagination as a question.
Red boy had to think of now, though when he had just read
[? Christina ?] [? Say ?] by email.
She had lost her imagination.
A long time once upon a long time ago is now.
And now, no one loses their imagination
within that moment of a long time once upon a long time ago,
not you, not me, not Borges.
If Borges could bring himself about
within the magical sacred moment of his now
and here and right away, then you and imagination can, too.
'The Book of Sand.'
'The Book of Sand,' as I recall, that's what the book of Borges
says.
Sometimes red boy just thinks and thinks.
What word holds you?
red boy thinks and thinks.
Hmm, what word holds and holds?
Or what words hold against all odds?
None, really.
Sometimes, instead, loss is what happens.
red boy thinks and thinks."
"A story of long ago in the 1970s
in the dark somewhere southeast of Lawton, Oklahoma,
three Comanches and a Pueblo dude all drinking all day,
beginning when ending when who knows, that kind of time,
driving here and there.
Let's go see my cousin, Buddy, one Comanche says.
OK, let's do that, the other Comanche says.
Let's go, go, go.
And the third Comanche grunts, uh, OK, yeah.
And me, popping another one and tossing an empty
into the dark field out there, into nowhere,
southern Oklahoma, thinking Dallas and New Orleans
and Atlanta and El Paso.
I'm on the run, and it doesn't matter where things are at.
It was the year my life was that way, the wrong way,
going to hell way.
OK, I say.
Let's, let's move.
Which way?
And they all give me directions that are amazingly complex
all at the same time.
So red boy says to the third Comanche, you drive.
I don't know if he can drive or has a license.
But red boy doesn't give a shit.
The Comanche gets behind the wheel,
and we go somewhere in the dark.
In the dark somewhere, miles out of Lawton,
south, east, west-- who knows?
We drive around in the dark until there
is a little bit of yard light that we drive toward and stop.
And first Comanche jumps out of the car
and hollers, Warrior Blade, come out of your cave
and do it quick and now!
And the door opens, and a skinny little boy
about eight or so stands in a dim light,
holding the door with his right hand,
says nothing, just stares into the dark,
where we are three Comanches and a Pueblo dude.
Warrior Blade, Warrior Blade, don't be afraid.
It's just me, your big bad dad paying a call,
the first Comanche guy says in a loud holler.
The skinny kid doesn't flinch.
And he says, my daddy ain't home, and you better leave.
And he turned and went back into the house,
carefully closing the door behind him."
"The Word is Remember" "I remember some details--
dark night, stars far, so far away above Oklahoma,
so far away, almost like another world.
The three Comanche guys, the oldest one a big man,
Vietnam vet, insane and dangerous, and his brothers.
And the one driving the car, the youngest one,
maybe he was a relative, too.
I don't know.
He was a teenager.
Later that night, he was the one who stole my car,
or wanted to steal my car, and stabbed me.
He didn't want to give me back my car keys.
He wanted my car, just a cheap Chevette four-door.
He said he was going to get his gang so they
could tar and feather me.
Old Comanche trick, I said with a sneer.
And I said, I want my fucking car back
so I can get the hell out of here.
Finally, the big Comanche guy hollered, give him back
his goddamn car, asshole, so he can get the hell back
to his cliff-dwelling home.
The word red boy remembers is "remember,"
as in remember to never go back to Comanche country."
[LAUGHTER]
Well, those are little pieces.