La Poesia

Hurry, he mumbled without moving his lips, avoiding the eyes of the crowd. And she wiped his back clean. The blood was gone, and hector stood up. The cheers began, slowly, as his audience read:

The murmur was growing. Almost all would have finished reading by now. The outburst was next, and Hector knew how to time it. He crouched down, now, signed his forehead with his thumb, and burst up into the air, turning around 180 degrees, arms high in triumph, and the crowd roared.

As the pain was subsiding, the chanting of the crowd blanketed and numbed him. The euphoria was at a zenith. Unlike anything that can be described to the uninitiated. Some students might say it’s like that feeling of blissful warmth after pasting a giant green ball of wasaibi all over your tongue, but Hector frowned on such immature similes. And the crowd roared and cheered and crouched and jumped high, turning in the air, feeling the radiant blissful warmth emanating from beyond the glass wall.

Depression set it after the blood began to coagulate. Like a coronary artery disease, as the blood flow on his back stopped, Hector felt his limbs go numb, his head became light, and his breathing condensed into short violent spurts. His assistant, rose to cover him; he saw the crowd dispersing. Hector stumbled backwards towards her. She could have saved his fall by catching him, but she stepped aside, and he tumbled back onto the side of his bench, and bounced onto the stairs beyond the bench. The pain was agonizing.

Galleries across the US were looking for a performance by Hector; performance art like Hector was a big money draw. A plastic surgeon in Silicon Valley wanted to amputate his back, harvest a piece of his work and hang it on a wall, kept alive by pumping oxygenated blood through its veins. The surgeon promised a skin graft in return, plus an interest bearing convertible note payable upon death. Hector liked the idea of a fresh canvas. His back was scared now to the point that it was hard to read his new work. The lumps and bumps, the new skin and the poorly timed sun burns, made his back look like a freshly fought field of war.

Opportunity was everywhere. Hector passed the time instructing his students, and was making appearance fees at vamp-goth parties in the Redeye district. Several teenage boys had taken up his pilgrimage. They practiced at first with paper clips on their arms, not always drawing blood. The best students were able to feel the poem meld with flesh and transcend pain, like Hector. With a degree from his school, one of his graduates could build a wonderful life in some town without a flesh poet, while earning enough to raise a family. Hector’s agent believed that the profits laid in expansion, in bringing his art to the rest of the world. He had been approached about a combination documentary and book deal with a soundtrack that Hector would have the rights to dedicate one song fourteen years from the date of production, or death, whichever came last. Hector liked that, a dedication The plan was to turn the documentary into a feature film, after building a cult following with the cultural elite, then release it internationally in conjunction with the worldwide opening of schools by Hector’s disciples. With the resulting cash flow and a few additions to the management team, Hector could probably take his company public, his agent posited. Hector, however, could not be bothered with such details. Just do what you will, he told his agent. He only wanted to be left alone to concentrate on his next opus. He signed hours of documents for his agent, but at least now he was free. His agent had given him his word, and sealed it with a drop of blood.