My father was a butcher;
My uncle worked in the wastelands.
I was a small clerk
in a grocery store.
There was no social security
or health insurance in our
country — and I had stage~I throat
cancer; my father had to sell
our house to buy me chemotherapy
We moved to a rented house. The landlord used to
behave to us, as if we were stray dogs.
The rented house was small, there
was no running water. The toilet
had several structural defects.
I had not married, I had no
children, and I had kept my body pure
for more than 10 years.
One day, at 2 p.m. of the night,
I witnessed a wonderful vista
through the window: as if ten thousand
suns shone brightly, at once, in the sky
and evaporated a few minutes
later — leaving deep furrows
of shimmering trails
of flashing lights — shooting
in random directions — then curling
and gradually dying away:
a third eye (vertically positioned)
opened in the middle of my forehead, above
the joint of the two eyebrows.
This eye had eyelid, eyelashes,
but used to remain closed and inactive
for the most of the time of the day.
My hobby was archery, and writing, and
whenever I used to touch the bow, or the pen,
this third-eye used to get opened, and activated.
I could intuit the world
through this third~eye.
I bought a pistol, and moved to the capital
city of our country.
I rented a very small room
near the parliament building.
I would observe the cars
of the politicians, coming to the parliament,
every morning. These people were
married, were fathers; some
were unmarried — but their bodies
were impure. None of them
had any third-eye in the middle
of their forehead.
These people were looters.
These people had bought and kept
bulldogs, in order to keep normal
people out of politics.
Yet, all of these people
were handed down pens, and all of them
were supposed to be writers.
They could structure
the world by (the power of) their pen, by
their writing; yet, they
were composing parodies, with
their impure hands.
I assassinated the prime minister
of our country, by shooting
him in the middle of his
forehead, one morning. The next
morning — my face — with the opened
third eye on my forehead — was
published in newspapers all over the world.
I was born again,
this time, in Finland.
I work in the World Bank, now;
I'm working to improve
the conditions in the slaughterhouses
and the wastelands, all over
the world; I'm working
to provide (social security and) health
insurance to every citizen in the world.
My third eye has vanished
from my body; but I've acquired a xerox copy
(from my local library) of the front-page of the newspaper
of that day. I'm keeping that picture
as a memento, of my psychic appendicitis.
My father was a butcher;