Manchas. Todo que se deja. El café se acabo ayer pero las manchas de otros dias y tazas llenas - quedan. Manchas dispersas en cuadra blanca. Half moons. Crescents. Al principio limpio con Windex™. Windex™ can solve everything. That’s what you learn in that wacky immigrant enclave in Chicago where the houses boast flamboyant Greek keys, Roman columns, each door protected by evil eyes in grand old world one-upmanship; and if the residents don’t roast the lamb in the front yard you can be sure there’s a pit out back.
Oh my people my people Windex™ resolveria todo: gripa, achaques, enfermidades, dudas, duele -- cualquier cosa. Well maybe not a broken heart. And not these brown pockmarks on my very nice white table. Next: algo para blanquear. No sirve. Move on to Ajax™. Just so you know, Ajax™ works. Remember this. Rough, abrasivo, fuerte. azul hace blanco. Magic. agua por vino. manchas. sangre. manchas. sangre. mas. mas. no mas. vino por donde. Pienso yo: bombas hace paz.
Mágico. Erase everything. Need to forget - pull out the big guns.
¿Y tu mi Corazón?
I’ve run out of coffee. What will I read now. Tea leaves are so flowery and mysterious. They rumple and fold, push up against one another. Certainly beyond my humble talents. What else. The newspaper. Not my first choice and often more difficult to navigate than the black sand at the bottom of my small cup.
What I really want is to read your eyes. Look deep into them. I dream all the answers lie there in the thick, dark, hello waiting for me there. But you are so far. Or I am so far. Or there is a great distance between us. And I have my own troubles tumbling down buildings stacked upon one another. More and more bodies pushing my limits. Here I stand outstretched refusing noone. They come and come and come. Building dreams stacked one upon the other. Each thinks theirs the purest, the truest.
The philosophers stand at their rock, high above the city, one on top of the other. They fly a kite asking for some answers. The kite billows pregnant in the wind. Its wings puff out and it is a balloon.
Something sinks below.
I’ve lost my touch. There is so little to see, but I can’t make it out. My head is heavy with pollution and the clouds hanging needing to rain. When will it rain. A downpour. But tomorrow we can only hope for a drizzle and a slow rinsing.
Some days I don’t eat well. Others gorgeous. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. But I promise if you came to visit I would be the best kitchen boy for miles. You would rave to everyone about my moles and ceviches. By the way have I ever asked you how you feel about tacos.
a fox, a duck, a squirrel, a ghost, a magician and a naked fat lady came to town for a show… they are waiting for the circus to begin. On the sidelines there is a 3 breasted woman. In a corner two small but important people huddle together talking big important talk. One leans forward, the other rests leisurely in her chair. Smoke billows from behind, enclosing them. They dream up a boat cradled by strong calm waves. The relaxed and confident one points to the boat like a chalkboard -- ‘see this is how it will be done, this is the plan. It’s a good one don’t you agree.’
The sky blasts a small crater in the sea -- remember we are still upside-down. A flash reveals the afterglow of distant lands, small look outs. Or we are in a cave but on the sea and the stalactites make a sparse grove for us to admire. We see the tide’s marks along the stone walls and dream of other days long past. A memory or a premonition.
There is a part that I cannot field. Is it a girl, an old lady, a bush a tree talking to an ostrich neck extended to the sky or head in the sand? And the number 5 twice. Once floating in a tangle of strings and one pinpoint punctuating a small anthill in the ocean. I know we are upside down, but this is really too much. My head dull from tequila and a pregnant sky wanting to burst with rain, but holding back, I can’t see anything much today. I think of something funny you said once responding to my: ‘well what do you see?’ anxious and expectant that my future will be bright or tragic in you voice. You answer: ‘I see you’ve made a mess’ we look at the lake of coffee grounds on the plate and smile together.
27.07.06
It could be a desert island, no hay nadie, with palm trees and a broken coconut resting in la sombra. La arena slopes down, picturesque. Like one of those really stupid and boring B.C. comics we used to like so long ago. It’s only the bottom half of the frame. The tree has no fronds or head… just the trunk. There are people very small under una sombrilla that looks like a clam shell. Shelter. The sand slopes down and across to another small palm tree also headless, whispering. Across the billowing sea a beautiful woman with starfish breasts and a wide scaly tail rises. Her right arm rests along her torso, hand behind her back. The left hand summons the waters palm down, raised to shoulder height. She is ready to make magic. I want her to make magic.
I search the rim, tip it over, look to the other side for her head. Why are their no heads in this picture. She is powerful and daring without one, but shouldn’t she get to have a head.
To her right the horizon calm and steady.
a big winged body - I want it to be me, I want it to be Poseidon - huge pushing up up up out of the current that flows beneath. The tide pulls strong from under Rouche Rock you and others small swim protected.
The sands polluted a natural disaster, but the pigeon way station stands gallantly against the heavy onslaught.
When this is all over I will visit you and we will cliff dive again. Soaring.
In the meantime I can offer my shores, rough and tumble. Playas chingonas y hot -- con basura qotidiana, y la gente, humilde, trabajadores, chillando debajo de palapas hecho a mano y sombrillas. Y el mar. Pacifico.
Bienvenido. Ahlan wa sahlan.
25.07.06
I am standing tall. I am as big as a mountain. I am the volcano. My head gushing up to the top ready to flow a river of hot stuff on the masses below. But there is no one around to congratulate me, run for cover, watch awestruck. Alone. This holds me back. My arms and legs heavy, close to my body, stuck. I look down at the pit of sky like chocolate icing chunky on a chocolate cake.
Across the abyss, a single thread of steam plummets.
I turn my head and I see you. Right there next to me. have you been there all this time. While I triumphant and scared decide I’m alone in my cause celebre. You are there, lounging. You recline resting on one elbow, one knee up, head smiling towards me. you are protected by thin shards of ancestry and in the back of you mind, leaking out into the blank space beyond, the first letter of my first name rising. Or maybe the top is closed and it is your first letter of your first name in my idiom. There is a wall of rock between us but I know you see me. you wait for me to make my grand entrance you would like to applaud, be awestruck. I don’t move.
smooth slick skateable sky flickering dots dashes. Smoke echoes drooling. we are here no rescue no bright orange life preserver under you seat, pull tab to inflate. A tree yawns wide we are walking away. A man in front of me leans down to talk to a shark bouncing out of the water, tail kicking up. the shark speaks words like question marks bubbling up to our ears. A warning. Sure. Press on.
Cruise ships fill the port. A new passage east. No one is waiting for you in lanarca.
23.07.06
Cave drawings on the floor thick black chocolaty. A man on a horse arms raised, but no it’s a tank and the cannon pulls back. Before him running away, backs towards the canon, people. A crowd at close range but this does not stop the soldier. This is the scene as it is described in the handbook. The sun above grave slips across the dark chocolaty sky. The man on the tank has no idea we watch him from up here.
Along the walls insects feed themselves. A spider with the head of a praying mantis in her jaws/claws. An insect dragon like a frail Godzilla sneaks up behind a small duck or deer nesting in the tall grass looking at flowers and grasses and ghosts of prior inhabitants to this field.
A wise man greets a pair of runaways and gives them good advice. Two dolphins splash above the sea’s surface, heads up. a shepherd boy watches all of this from a safe distance.
Ants. Hormigas. Working hard. Caterpillars, bugs under the earth under the ant hill legs and antennae working tirelessly, building something. Looks industrious and like we should cheer for their hard work and thank them or something… but there is something sinister and calculated and not for us about their labor. Outside exotic birds stand, long legs, knobby knees bringing us some perspective. Giant next to this small ant hill almost puts this cottage industry in its place… but still disturbed can only think the bird is a mirage, just more smoke from more small fires laying wait, simmering. Ash accumulates.
It’s all undone
The tops of trees hover in the basement of things below below the surface of the earth
Rain pours down the wall of sky above a thick range of mountains rolling and soft.
Milliones of voices singing screaming between waves of water.
Salva. Que salvan.
20.07.06
A large looming mountain behind sheltering us. The valley below calm and smooth. Rolling hills in the distance. I can see past. A waterfall careening down. Cool and breezy but a surprise, we come upon in quickly. Quietly crashing down. The earth is simmering, smoke whispering up up up from small fires at the foot of the boiling mountain. I walk. Head high. I feel as big as a mountain. As sure. My body warm thick flames --- if only I could be a fireball -- but I don’t have enough fury for that. There are others with me, we walk together. a few walk into a hole in the volcano/mountain/tree. But I stand outside not ready to bend down and huddle against the next day. I think: if I go inside we can push the mountain up like a Trojan horse.
19.07.06
the sea below churns. Rising up to the shores like a bear protecting her young.
the sea has opened up and a mermaid finds her way to shore. She kneels before a queen, or the virgen de Guadalupe… of some other important woman with a heart for a head. Behind her there is a coyote howling. Steam rises from the mermaid’s body as she suffers from being on land for too long. But it is worth it she supplicates and it looks like it will do some good.
Behind them the fire rages on land, with bullets and missiles flying into the sky. A thick flame. But the sky sets a limit to the amount of smoke she will endure. She pushes down the flames.
18.07.06
mountains and trees rising to protect us. Thick and solid. And flames licking the sky. The world has turned upside down and the moon is below us. Waxing. Waning. Shining on us. She is also the sea pulling back over pebbles. Slurping back over the shore revealing something raw and precious. There is a goddess hidden in the base of a mountain strong. Waiting. What is she waiting for exactly. Can’t she see we need her now more than ever.
firebird rising from the sea. Trying to lift her wings against the salt and the thick of the sea. Small sea volcanos bubbling to the surface. The fire continues, but the dark black cloud is gone. There is a glimmer of hope, of respite, that the fire will calm. A cool clear breeze from the east contains the flames.
We are in a forest. We take refuge in the largest trees with the strongest roots. Birds visit us and bring us news from the outside. Their wings flutter around us huddled in the pit of the cedar’s hollow. These birds remind us of skies and roaming winged.
Our skies are now filled with fighters. Pushing thru the clouds, littering our streets with notices: leave before the bombing if you value your life. trans: your life is not your own. trans: dig your own grave or we will dig it for you. The letters from our own hand, curls and loops dotted and broken but the words, the language belligerant and ruined, belong to someone else. The sentences don’t make sense the syntax is embattled and brusque. Confident in its graceless insult.
The routine of our days is totally changed. We now live under a regimen of survival under siege. Those of us still not wounded and not stranded do whatever needs to be done to survive until the next day. Coffee, yes, I have coffee in the morning, and at noon and in the afternoon. Perhaps I have too much coffee.
andale pues
prometamelas
I will write every day of the siege. It will end quickly
This cannot be a life-long project
I will grow my hair until they leave.
I will not smoke until they leave
I will not drink beer until they leave.
I will be very healthy and have hair down to my ass.
