St. George in Mexico

Yesterday had a strange and beautify day.

Didn’t expect much ’cause I’d written four

poems the day before. I was reading

Kocbek in the morning, Junoš lent it.

He’s the only Slovenian matching with me.

Then I went to Christine’s birthday.

I was received by old Alfredo. He told me

the whole gang went to Cuernavaca,

they asked me to join them. You have to put

your phone in order, he grinned. The old dog

knows I’m hiding it. This small bourgeois

girl from Parma, lost in the faraway lands of 

her factories owning uncle, has no idea

what the writing claims. She’s pissed.

I’m constantly in a panic. She wants to

marry me. I felt stupid and abandoned, I

wouldn’t follow them for a minute. I went to

Kineret to order wine. Total theater.

If you’re here without a woman, they

think you came to buy a boy. For

half an hour it was perfect. The great march

past of racy guys, everyone asking for

a light or the time. Yep. I have both. I drank

wine, felt abhorrent, wanted to go home.

But outside, somebody was sitting I liked

the instant I noticed him. Didn’t dare approach,

he was alone. I circled, watching him,

thinking, and decided to join him. The chief

of pimps glanced at me in rage. I lost my

jitters. His look meant: this colt attracts you,

you slight my pros. I was relieved. Giorgio

told me story that baffled me. They

stole his travelers’ checks at Isla

Mujerez, and now he waits for new ones,

penniless. I have no idea why I believed him,

but I did. We talked until two AM

and when he gave me a saber carved out

of a tree branch, I was struck. Druids, page 63,

materialized. San Gorgio, home near Ascona,

two kilomters from Monte Verità, where

Hesse lived. I have met a friend. Such as

Gandalf. I translated then showed him

page 63. Now I will care for him, protect

him. We will go to Oaxaca, among Indians,

and eat mushrooms in places he already knows.

— Translated from the Slovenian by Michael Thomas Taren and the author