THE BUENDÍA HOUSE, A REPUBLICANO ECLECTIC HOUSE
Searching for things in a ruin, I discover nothing finds repair. Everything remains
broken. Is it surprising that this same moment repeats itself. The wooden house
burns once, once more, & then it is done.
How do you convince someone of their being every morning. Show them
rubble so unfathomable it resembles concentric boxes. There is a point at which
words become irresponsible. A father instructs his son how to care for his name
saying encoded therein is knowledge of your last gesture. It’s not the bones
who invent dangerous ideas & conspire to do them.
No body contains any less blood. Termites who succumb to their own convictions
feel the mighty weight of timber.
Let the future make all the fossils & let the buildings keep peeping on us
like saints. Let the encyclopedia remain written in monologue. If you want
ashes back after the rain, sift through the river to find them.
This poem builds itself from:
Marquéz. Gabriel Garcia. One Hundred Years of Solitude. New York: Harper Perennial. 1998.
Viollet Le Duc, Eugène Emmanuel. On Restoration. Tr. Charles Wethered. London: Marston, Low, & Searle. 1875.