This is a country of silent faces. This is a country
of halfway hopeless English. And this country
does surreal not in images but in accents.
The man there told me he wasn't a salesman,
he wasn't selling anything, I think that's what
he said when I said I wasn't going to listen
to any salesman selling anything. His accent
wasn't Indian. As I asked where he came from
he answered in words I think were an answer
that he wasn't allowed to answer the question.
But he knew where I was and he wanted
personal answers from persons like me.
I come of your power, he said, on the intercom.
Let me in. I have plan. Oh, you have plan, I said
I show you mine, he said. You will not, I said
down to him. And which company are you from?
(It wasn't mine.) Fuck off, I said, I don't do plan.
Then later he buzzed me again, and as I listened
blew an insult, I must imagine, some ethnic curse
I couldn't understand. Who says conceptual art is dead?
I come your power. I am the vengeful. Let me in.