*The Autumn of the Patriarch
The Autumn of the Patriarch -Gabriel García Márquez
It really doesn't matter what I think, what I read, the words a-flow so, it might as well rhyme, it might as well all the world rhyme and the general sir, under the ceiba tree, swinging in his hammock and shaking the candy rattle to get a whiff of the school girls, it's sick, really sick of you general sir, to be so damn duped by the fascical lore of fiction and yet be authored by one dithyrambic, ego-bent peppermint drop spirit, but do as you will, hatch a chicken in a drawer, chase a cow down the stairs, in the linty carpet of my soul I know that in the toothache, mallow running of the tongue and disaster, that there is love in your rant, García Márquez, that there is the implacable, pane-throwing, dream-spawning, Homeric dawn freedom of love and old age and love in your mounting life by the girth and riding her through the inscrutable sea lore.
And I finish the book on a great day to finish the book, (Oh! The Symbolism!), as this morning I discover that I take over the position of President, sir, of the Union and League, and all of its tectonic repercussions, the world is blowing up, Mr. President, it is the Autumn of the old and the dawning of the hot-blooded, Down with Fascismo! the corruption collusion confusion is bygone, and what I'm trying to say, the President has eloped, but can't because I keep getting my tongue caught in the crankshaft, what would Archimedes say to internal combustion, General sir, get your head out of your throat, but let's not make a farce of this, it isn't a farce, General sir, it really isn't.
It really doesn't matter what I think, what I read, the words a-flow so, it might as well rhyme, it might as well all the world rhyme and the general sir, under the ceiba tree, swinging in his hammock and shaking the candy rattle to get a whiff of the school girls, it's sick, really sick of you general sir, to be so damn duped by the fascical lore of fiction and yet be authored by one dithyrambic, ego-bent peppermint drop spirit, but do as you will, hatch a chicken in a drawer, chase a cow down the stairs, in the linty carpet of my soul I know that in the toothache, mallow running of the tongue and disaster, that there is love in your rant, García Márquez, that there is the implacable, pane-throwing, dream-spawning, Homeric dawn freedom of love and old age and love in your mounting life by the girth and riding her through the inscrutable sea lore.
And I finish the book on a great day to finish the book, (Oh! The Symbolism!), as this morning I discover that I take over the position of President, sir, of the Union and League, and all of its tectonic repercussions, the world is blowing up, Mr. President, it is the Autumn of the old and the dawning of the hot-blooded, Down with Fascismo! the corruption collusion confusion is bygone, and what I'm trying to say, the President has eloped, but can't because I keep getting my tongue caught in the crankshaft, what would Archimedes say to internal combustion, General sir, get your head out of your throat, but let's not make a farce of this, it isn't a farce, General sir, it really isn't.
posted by JohnWashington at 12:05 PM
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