YELLOW ROMAN CANDLES

The girl whom I loved the most left me. At ten I cut my finger in a flour mill.

 At six I broke my nose getting hit by a car.

 At fifteen I skinned my hip and -elbow falling off a moped,

 I had decided to defy the street, riding with no hands, looking backward.

 I broke my thumb skiing, after flying ten meters and landing on my head, 

I got up and saw, as in a cartoon, circles of birthday candles turning in the air and then I fainted.

 I have not made love to the wife of a friend. I do not love the sound of a family on the train. 

I am uneasy in rooms with small windows. 

Sometimes I realize that what I’m in the middle of saying is boring, so I just stop talking.

 Art that unfolds over time gives me less pleasure than art that stops it.

 Even if it is an odd sort of present, I thank my father and mother for having given me life.