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Who am I to myself to get hold of myself ? Who am I to myself to get hold of myself Like the water flows down in this canal The canal is just a container to it Or is it the Whole (well mostly it stays unmoving) Who am I in this moving body Which sleeps when I want it to write Which demands food and coffee Amidst all my lectures Which stays frozen When my mind desires someone Who am I in this frozen body Who am I in this moving body Which stays frozen when I command it to move Went down the ice-cream shop And bought a treat for it Went by a lingerie shop And bought a treat for it Like for my lover I wanted to write: “Who am I to myself to get hold of myself—a god, a devil, a slave owner, a slave” But I crossed it out Eyes stared at the line with ridicule For it’s not the Other As well as I’m hardly the Other It took a lifetime for all my parts to say my name in unison The voice cracked in the noise and faded You just turned back to listen But that was it And I can’t reproduce it

Home shadows of gables on thick snow in deep sunlight is what I picture thinking of home but that’s not true I picture a day when a language teacher gave me a card with the word home and I had to explain it it was a bit too late by then I had moved from my hometown so I asked for a different word at home or place where I stayed I laughed at my own escape from explaining home to my classmates those at language courses merely target audience of the word home what would I tell them? 1. You will be asked a lot about it once you leave it (Every day someone invites you to visit the past With a smile you lie about having a busy evening) 2. You will be chased by the questioning feeling which comes too late (Turn back and sleep, the conversation is over) 3. Just like a memory of the former possession once you’re broke, Your non-existing home composes you but you’re too much of a future to think of origins



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