The world was ending andremember when invitations came through the mail in little envelopes sealed with a sticker and sometimes even had hand-drawn inscriptions of your name with confetti inside if the kid who scribbled his address in the corner happened to think good times included hot glue guns and fuzzy piping animal shapes.
I live in a lower-class neighborhood of Paris, at the end of a small, dark street, one of the last refuges for some dealers. Once there, you have to come inside the building through a pretty large entryway, walk across the courtyard, then take the correct staircase, follow a corridor, make a right, and its at that door that hundreds of men have come knocking.
The language of poetry cant be enclosed in any category, cant be summed up in any function or formula. Neither instrument nor ornament, it scans a word carrying the ages and the fleeting space, founding both stone and history, welcoming their dust. It moves about in the energy that makes and breaks empires.
A sound is heard in the air, it parts from the slopes of the mountains and it clots in this basin in which the clarity of the sun tenuously disengages the opacity of a veil that covers it and seems generated from the sterile womb of the web that the dry branches make on the faces of the hills.