I am Savaje

But I am not not Clara

I long and I long

But for what I don’t know


I emerged from the primordial chaos

Ether of a land that cannot be described

There is something deep in me anxious

Writhing, screaming to escape

And so I speak my patois, wage my insurgency

Longing and longing, for what I do not, cannot know 


In my mind I am nude

Except for my kohl and jewels

That slide over skin celestially-tanned

Sanded by the orange grains of nostalgic dunes

I awoke in the smoke of the dead of Montparnasse

Where at Tzara’s grave I received the eyes of flick’ring hopes

I was baptized by the breadth of animal night

In a burnt sea where the humans knew they were creatures

Now I sleep under the petals and curls of Miami flora

With fata morganas of polyrhythm and fame

And I worship at the chords of burning visions

to reach where I’ve never not always known.


“Nature is the rapid efflux of goodness executing and organizing itself”; the total entropy of a system can never decrease over time. I am the coin upon which these two sides are laid; the point of limitless depths between two fluctuations of these curves. Life is absurd, made of paradoxes and contradictions—balance; I—we—fall into entropy, as a tree trunk, expanding with each year, each fleeting lover, outward and outward, disintegrating toward egalitarian fate, to be remade in the form of those intangible laws that govern this universe. “’A [wo]man,’ said Oliver Cromwell, ‘never rises so high as when [s]he knows not whither [s]he is going.’” Perhaps it is good that the saudade of my name knows not from where it springs, nor to what heights it extends.  


What can I say, but that I see it all, constantly? It cripples me, it enlightens me, it harasses me, it caresses me. I have always felt it, yet the acquisition of knowledge allows me to see it more. I felt it in the prairie, I feel it in the eternal pages of the stacks, but I cannot describe it, for it cannot be described. What can I say, but that I saw it, and others see it in me, and I see it in some others too.

My mother says that when I was a baby I cried out of frustration for the inability to speak.

But speak I can, and cry still I.

Not a cry of tears, but a cry of my art, a cry of these words.

A cry has its own meaning.

My earliest sentiment is of the prairie, a land that I did not live in but felt. It occupied a place in my mind like no other, for there nothing was limited to its substance. When the wind blew through its grasses, I knew it as breadth, of an organism, with a consciousness.

And I had compassion for it, and it had compassion for me.


The world is hostile to what it does not understand.

We fear darkness; divinity is light. We fear chaos; divinity is order.

To have gotten here we must have believed in light and order—

and because we believed it, it came true.

Those eyes of fear pierced me, and so I gave myself this name.

A savage, from the wilderness, that they could not understand—

but to me, the prairie, a unity, an infinity, that yearns for my embrace.


“In the thought of to-morrow there is a power to upheave all thy creed, all the creeds, all the literatures, of the nations, and marshal thee to a heaven which no epic dream has yet depicted.”


Come with me, let me help you understand.

To this order that is chaos, to this chaos that is order.


“Beware when the great God lets loose a thinker on this planet. Then all things are at risk.”


But do not be afraid

I promise you

it is beautiful.