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Zapatagraphy – A Dozen

November 9, 2009

Brando as Zapata


Zapata possessed a moustache,
not black enough to

satisfy him. A land, a
body of empires.


Proceeding along the heap
of stones, it was wet winter,

a village. Zapata did not make
a sound, fearful of seeing

the casualties that
took place around him.

Language must handle those wonders.
The light that is a method of language.


Zapata became acquainted with
the blood. A bird burst forth amidst

the city. The thatch had fallen
on the floor and in you.


He was then outline, a single
form of wax or a little boat

with a sheet. The dead
hovered round and instigated me.

What there is of consequence
was not in the boat. Zapata felt

gratitude towards those shores which formed
a calm far more monstrous.


The spirit of enterprise
laid by me, the sad death of every

artery at length unalterable.
A tongue makes moisture

in the red of this current.
Zapata was nearly burnt

out, needing to
recollect what he loved.


A spatial picture can depict
anything spatial: a single lake

which is stone, a man paused and definitive,
its hills. The lamp light, what makes it crackle, what

makes it ferns and destroying? They are merry —
only a picture. He became the wind so

when he climbed out through them, over
them, it was open air.


Zapata longed to discover what
could be made to yield.

Rejoicing stream of autumn.
Vegetables in a garden.


He sprang from you — a man,
sailing over the sea,

a human mind. We are worn by
fate, so that some say Zapata

did not dream. Yet he brought no limits.
That which is beautiful in continuation.


This state of active occupation.
It stood. In the house and sometimes

with the blood from it. After all,
its productions and features may

be called a precipice,
gazing on the trees, all the firmness

of deformity. A curve, no
doubt, of the church. And in it

no peace. “We have failed” they shout.
I grew feverish. It stood.


No wood could support the
horror of the peasants who dwelt

in organization. Alas, they were put
together with affection,

the difference between green
and brown and not a dream, but a garden.


Zapata was a man to be governed
by an emotion. The form of

his face was concealed, laughing, fearful
of elevation. So much

has been refused and given.
The sound of production.


I saw a vessel, stretched
out of pigeons in my

ears’ long intervals. Zapata composed
heroic songs and began

to comprehend most of them. The summer
sun was upon the mountain.

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