The street is Carrer Sant Pau & it leads to
the bar Marsella where a small boy sits in a chair & prods me to buy
his pipe which he'll fill with his special mix of Asia & Africa &
he slips between the slivers of light & is back with a jar & I
strike a match & the band plays softly at first & louder &
the boy is gone & his mother comes & lays out her cards &
I'm told I have to choose & I take the red road & she leads me
back to America & a dog I ran from & a girl I kissed in the basement
& my mother who always behaved & my father who hid his stained
collar like a sore & then I chose the blue road & she took me
back to Angelica & a night in Marrakech when the breeze came off the
desert & I heard the tapping of camels on the road & she knew
how to apply tea to a burn & her lips to a swelling & after that
I chose the black road & the peddlers of knives & potions &
I bought one of each & ran ahead & heard my own voice in my ear
& stopped & asked for the last & she opened her hand &
in her palm lay a silver key & I took it & asked her to come &
we danced & she left a flower in my lapel & I smiled at her decision
& turned away & went on.
Even Dreaming Comes More Slowly
but there's one with fast water & mountains &
cars that hold the road as if I might complete some trip
as if destiny were a fact & all we need do is be
there like a giraffe needs tall trees & it
seems to play well unless the torrent is swift &
logs & dead cattle & here's where a bend comes in handy
& a quick swim to the other side & a bonfire
& someone hands me a cocktail with a cherry in it & my old friend
Dave is laughing
with a new girl on his arm & invites me to take
a break & I do going faster than we should down that
mountain road when the lights of the town come into
view & there's a fire at city hall & a patrol poking
their noses in our windows wanting us to explain which
we can't or wont or don't in time & they chase us
toward the river & the careening cattle & David
jumps with his love & I steer into oncoming
lights before I'm clear of debris & wanting to get
back to my dinner but can't find the way &
the last I see are the stains on my pants & the
need for a bath & no one I know is in the room & my cocktail is
warm & the cherry
Amputees
In Sierra Leone the intruders cut off her hands &
his arms & her legs & they cut & left & in the chaos which
is the hospital for the disabled all the appendages have escaped incineration
& march or crawl or stutter or stagger like an army weathering winter
but not in Sierra Leone...it is too hot in Sierra Leone...Here - they
march like an army drenched in sweat & blood that leaks from their
ruptured veins & they hunt in the bush & the back-streets &
alleys for 'Junior' who did the cutting & wore his name plainly &
with pride & his eyes glowed & his machete & he spoke mumbo-jumbo
& preached freedom & peace & butchered & left this young
girl, no more than fifteen years, to be fed & cleaned & used by
the merciful or those who are not.
Onion Eater: Film Clips in Archive
At the city dump,
this oily mist makes the day dark as the night that will come soon as
they dig for that last rotten fig or the wormy apple or a maggoty bone.
Their kids are most active; diving here & losing their footing &
sliding in the slime & grunge & carrying off the prized pieces
of gristle & sinew & fat.
Underground.
It seems like underground. The drifter comes to her for solace & a
kiss & she turns away & looks to the floor where a roach scurries
& now
he goes to the man who scratches his leg & bleeds & scratches
his face & bleeds & scratches his arm & his neck & leers
at her but will not speak to him & . . . &
at the shore
it’s another who’s come to lay out her eggs – all two
thousand – cracked, one at a time, until the beach is full &
swimming in eggs &
the tide rises & sweeps away the first row & back they come &
the second & the third goes out & back & all two thousand
yolks & the tide rises & . . . &
she eats her onion,
gnawing through its pale skin, gnawing the bitter & the sweet, the
juicy & the sparse & as she gnaws she drools & bites the air
&
tells the story of being herself & the large size of her breasts &
the too large size of her ass & the size of her long nose without
complaint &
whatever she needs she will have & as she gnaws she talks of what
is expected & how & what she will not & spits & bites
the air & eats . . .& now the eggs are whipped in the waves &
go on to the next life without a life to live & so they will lie in
the froth & foam & bear witness &
the garbage mound is rank & the garbage mound is rancid & the
harvesters shuffle to the beat of their hunger & their fallen pride
& dig & sort & . . . &
even now, no one will speak out & no one will touch the other &
the onion eater sneers & the onion eater jokes & she is not afraid
& will eat another & bites the air & grins.
At War [An Investigation]
CCCB (Catalunya Cultural Center Barcelona)
"September 2004 In times of peace the sons will
bury their fathers.
In times of war fathers bury their sons."
-Thucydides
A young boy has rummaged for scraps of wood & nailed
them to approximate the shape of an AK 47 automatic rifle.
His soon-to-be army issue web-belt
a single string he’s slung across his back
will have to do (as the love song says)
until the real thing comes along.
***
There’s a farmer wandering the roads of Rwanda with four bent scythes
stretched across his back:
Death in an old disguise?
Maybe just another scavenger plying his trade?
***
Cahoots & chortling recruits parade / a pole / they’ve strung
with the heads, hearts & testicles of the fallen.
As the maimed try to rise they flail & collide & it’s then
the Minotaur comes sniffs the air & finding blood, feasts on the remains:
no bodies left to rot, no bones to store. No relics to hang on your slim
altars.
***
The photographers that survive are always suspect:
“Where were you when he was shot?” “Where were you when
the tanks rolled in?”
“Where were you when she was shattered by the mines?”
“ Where . . .?”
“Where – Indeed.” Here. In the trench. In the trench
we’ve scooped from sand & broken plates,
where we’ve been trapped in a rain of blood & shredded skin
& once a leg & even arms & when we can,
we run with the stench & the stuff that clings & my film &
. . .
***
If not me than who?
Who will bury this desiccated corpse / already a meal for the buzzards
that hover here?
The joke that passes says, “If you steal from these well-meaning
janitors you will be the first to be swept up in your next life.”
I’m inclined to pass & walk away . . . & yet,
why not these birds? I mean . . . ***
In the end / there is always / memory
The red color of the flag that hangs on death’s wagon or drapes
the box where Jamie sleeps
is the last your country-men & women will ever know of the blood that
was spilled here.
History is packed with irony & contradiction. Don’t expect sustenance.
Rather, a snack to oblige & send you blithely on you way.
Never.
Look back.
The cabinet is empty / There’s nothing left to claim.
***
Each drop in the bucket anticipates another soldier down.
No matter.
There are always more buckets & more bodies to be tossed.
& if it’s one drop at a time /
one drop at a time it shall be.
So, it is said, by the shaman & the priests
who relish the last corpse / as if it were truly the body of hope
brought here to be resurrected
or not.
