I’m a motorcycle parked beneath the stars, by the window of the television repair shop.
a breeze blows from the alley, I’m pale, helpless.
in the shop a bulb’s been left burning, so that something like two cathode tubes
a few flowerpots with asparagus ferns and cactus, shelves in the corners crammed full of housings from TVs, AGFA cassettes and wires
glint obscurely, populate my solitude.
because I feel so lonely.
in my rearview mirror galaxies swim,
stars fog in globular swarms, transmit their panting to radio sources
all of them rushing farther and farther away in desperate flight, like criminals from the scene of the crime
leaving behind a trail of blood.
what silence. sometimes I wonder
what it means to make love. because that’s all they talk about. every Saturday they mount me
and drive me along the highways. I can look at the hills, clouds, the sun
raindrops, the bedraggled trees getting tangled in rainbows…
oh my cylinders throb in such frenzy. then I feel I’m really alive.
they go into the motel and make love.
they are the Masters and feel free.
but how can anyone made of cells be free?
…and in the driveway out back by some dust-covered VW beetle
I thirst for love. If I were at least able to love the plug on the extension cord in this shop window
I’d caress its white plastic skin with my fingers, if it let me
and if I had fingers. If I could at least be alive
in the bioelectric field of the cactus…
soon, soon I’m going to die, and I’ll not have done anything in this world.
they’ll toss me on the scrap heap
they’ll smash my headlight, and its burnt-out bulb will dangle from two flimsy strands of wire.
all my life I’ve helped others to make love
and I’m going to die among induction coils, magnets and thistles.
I’m a motorcycle parked beneath the stars.
in the morning they’ll mount me again, they’ll twist my handlebars, they’ll put me in gear
then once again on the colorful road, among russet hills, among blue mountains
in valleys threaded by meandering rivers
over railroad crossings, through crystalline country towns
racing against the wind through rain showers and exhaust fumes
eating the miles.
is this what they mean by making love?
anyway, this is my consolation, it’s my calling, my love.
for this it’s worth being alone.
translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Ioana Ieronim