Ready

Ready to have a coffee together on campus

(Cindy's grandparents; those roaring 20s).

Ready to go on an improper trip across the Nevada desert.

Ready for the intellect, to foxtrot, and to shock sellers.

Ready for the Empire’s lunar landings.

Blood. A crown of thorns: so many years later, back in Spain, they're filming, now in times of the autumn of the Patriarch.

Ready, as well, to cross oceans: American athletes in the ruins of the temple.

Ready for the costume parties.

Ready to DIY, for Catholicism, for high sugar.

Ready for bowling alleys, for playing cards, for bootees.

Ready to change their cap and for Mount Rushmore.

These moments should be for gifts for extremists: to give them to reactionaries.

Ready to find the oldest color in the world.

Ready to bounce on a trampoline, to change diapers, for the American dream.

Ready to go to a therapist in an “I don't buy.”

Ready for piñatas, for the biggest show on earth, for Trick or Treat.

A bullring. Two Cheshire smiles, facing the camera, brandishing swords over the heads of a few Republican women, then the Republican women without earrings without heads: Badajoz; Cindy's grandfather was a correspondent in 36. The living room's walls are full of pictures, of blinks in the times of people: together, perhaps, they don't explain or make up anything; barely, maybe, a disjointed mosaic.