Prophet His prophetic pneuma, his sense of eternal freedom, the endlessly creative mind of the giant who stood before a catastrophe and saw decaying humanity. He sensed that a future benevolence appeared before his eyes, before his prophetic vision, while he had his eyes closed. He saw the new race of men and women who stood opposite the morality of humbleness and against the well-fed bellies of priests and deacons, and he saw the creators of immortal boys and girls. This was his epiphany and his fate: life played like a drama, like a historical stage show of the pneuma with its delirium and tragedy, with a catharsis from the first moment, he realized that it was his freedom to think and to create his immortal Übermensch
Altar Our blood fiery red. When the newborns climb up the golden hills and autumn bestows its gifts unto the naked rain knees cactuses listen to the unsuspecting footsteps of Abel. Dawn readies its slaughter and the evening sacrifice sprinkles the door-posts of the west.
Suspicious Encounters Perhaps he was an imaginary person, and for this reason, more dangerous; I usually met him in the hallway or behind the hospital. The first time he pretended he didn’t know me, John,” I said to him, “Weren’t we hanged together?”— since then, I am of a different than my true age like what will shutter us is a detail that has gone unnoticed and time will come when we’ll remember it.
Presidential Campaign Well-covered presidential campaign She said with a dry voice Blonde media anchor stirred uncomfortably Latest debate results about the winner and who’s condemned to Purgatory comedy of Erring parrots repeating numbers rigged convention she said apologetically baptizing the viewers in the cold water of reality newscast misinformed the viewers of their collective fortune to be citizens of the most well-informed nation on earth
One More Chance Your hand was on the car and you tried to stop me from leaving. “Give us another chance” you kept on saying and I tasked you to let go of the car as I was ready to step on the gas. I simply told you, I intended to give that chance only to myself. And I drove away. I didn’t regret it. I recalled of course all the events but I never regretted it. I also asked for your forgiveness for a few things I believed I was wrong. But I never regretted it. I had to leave. The next person in my life made me understand that I was unfair toward you regarding a few things. One has to live something worse to finally understand. Yet, I never regretted leaving. I left when I had to leave. When something is wrong you need to find the strength and courage to leave. And now, although it hurts, I’m gone. I know I’ve done right. No reason to stay in something you know isn’t what you want. And compromise isn’t my thing.
Then the old man vanished I don’t know where and when he died or he ascended to the heavens and his companion eagle also flew away from his side and the violin, the most precious treasure was left to me. Play oh bow, play and create a new world from my hands in my two hands. Oh a new race, oh you, new race not the logos nor the song not a sound from any mouth. Only you exist, oh my violin and there is only one tongue and just one sound, yours, which I, the player, create and what creates the miracle is none other but your music. And if I’m a tree made of chords and music and nothing more, one sound and one breath and one song exist inside of me.
MORNING STAR Oh lustful morning star how you surrender to the day in the inundation of light before you blend and freshly spread the footprints of the night. And more than the moon you calm the darkness while you shine in secret like hope that with a mere caress defeats the blackest thoughts. Oh how alike to dreams you are, double-edged and slowly fading, flickering, alas, betrayed by night and even by the day’s bright, ruthless light.
Mirrors You left behind you the mirrors into which you met their ugliness, and the closed door concealing their injustice, once noticed. Where do these animals go why do they still breathe what do they contribute to this beauty save their excrements? Do they deserve to live or should they be helped to do the honourable thing? The mirrors into which you saw their ugliness, you left next to the boiling coffee pot, next to the severed umbilical cord as proof of the uncertainty of future days. Can you now connect to the inglorious past, during which you dreamed to save this world?
Pale Spirochaete* The scientific books had well prepared their blood thirsty images the doubting girl who smiled secretly beautiful the joy we received from her lips our forehead shook softly, persistently as we opened up that it would come in the craziness in our heads and lock itself inside and now our life becomes the strange, old story. The logic and our emotions becomes luxury burden we give to any sane person we retain the impulse, our childish laughter the instinct to rely onto the hands of God. His creation is but an atrocious comedy He, with the eternal good intention managed to pull the curtain before our eyes oh comedy, the awe, the dream, the smoke and the girl I went with was beautiful during that winter evening long ago, when enigmatically laughing she gave me her lips while seeing the fateful abyss closing in.
A short while later, a tall man came to the kitchen door. Salvador greeted him and the two men talked quietly together for a few minutes. Then Salvador pointed, and Ken heard him say, “This is the man I told you about. He is the man who has been sent.” Albert waved Ken toward him. “If you’ve been sent, you’d better come in.” Ken shook his hand and entered the kitchen. “Who sent you?” Albert asked. “It isn’t a who; it’s a what. An idea sent me and the idea starts with one human being asking another human being for one hour of his life to listen to a story, and the story is of a man you may have some familiarity with. His name is Lorenzo de Medici. Are you familiar with him?” “Yes I am.” “I want one hour of your life.” Albert sat at the kitchen table, quiet and composed. Even his eyes were still. His hands rested motionlessly on the tabletop, his fingers curled comfortably inward. Ken sat, took off his watch, and placed it on the table where he could see the time ticking away. He told Albert his understanding of Lorenzo de Medici’s life. He drifted away on his words, just as he had when he had made his speech at the Columbus Centre. He lost himself in the intensity of the moment – rushing down the white water of ideas like a kayaker tumbling down a raging river. “There are parts of that story I wasn’t familiar with,” Albert said, when Ken had finished. “Where did you get your information?” He told Albert about his birthday trip to Florence to see the statue of David and how on another birthday his father had given him a beautifully bound book of Michelangelo’s letters to Popes, kings and princes. The letters, he told him, described his relationship to the Medicis in his own words. “So you are an artist?” “I am a painter. Michelangelo was a sculptor who was made to paint. I am a politician who is made to paint. I have a job to do, and I have a mission to carry out that has to do with the people of the Arctic and the soul of a nation. We in Canada wander around very confused as to our identity. Our subjects of conversation are the weather, Quebec, and our identity. I have found the soul of this nation, and in the process, I found many wonderful stories and many wonderful symbols. At the same time, I discovered hell on earth – hell is what is happening to those people. I have been asked by the grandmothers to please tell the world about this. The first thing I want to do is tell you about it.” “Why would you want to tell me about it?” “In Michelangelo’s time there were Popes, queens, and princes. There were people who could sponsor great ideas.
Manolis Aligizakis 