Cleaving Saramago

Lisbon cleaving

“I indifferently

narrate my factless

autobiography”

—Fernando Pessoa

The Book of Disquiet

I live in a time—I write in a time

When young people—have lost faith

In books—without knowing why

Replacing logos—with Youtube

I haven’t given up—completely

I still read books—even though

Words on the screen—are faster

Works of literature—still exist

But not like—they used to

I’m still Kafka—but not cockroach

I’m still Pound—but not Pisa

I’m still Joyce—but not Ulysses

My old avatars—have flown the coop

I’m full of—new heteronyms

I write—auto-factlessly

I live—a life of disquietude

I leave—pain on the keyboard

I suppose—as offering to the gods

I’m stoic—like Pessoa

Just ask—Ricardo Reis

Ask Borges—Saramago

I’m a dim eye—a dying Cyclops

Already deep—in the labyrinth

Here in Lisbon—in the Thirties

Pessoa—knocks at the door

Ricardo Reis—answers it

Here the sea—ends

And earth—cleaves for me