a girl got bit the other day. i was resting tired feet under dusk haze
on stone bench. a variation on a golden retriever, smaller and more useless, snapped at a little girl´s hand trying to pet it. boy the face she made. erupted in horror. i remember in NYC seeing somebody die in a department store. fat mexican guy with a garish silly belt buckle and thick mustache spying prices at a tie rack, slam, on the ground, goner. some motion on the ground, just spasmic, and the paramedics rushed in pretty quick, this was just off broadway on 60th, there was a hoard of us taking this in---3 girls strolled by... one looked over nonchalantly. ¨is he dead?¨ ¨probably just looked at the pricetag...¨ hahaha. but this girl would never touch a dog again. ever. she´d probably end up bombing PETA clubhouses.
or maybe she WOULD pet a dog again.
what the hell makes some people flexible on that point and others fixed, for life, hardened against something forever.
no idea. i was hell bent on finding some icecream after a couple hours boxing across town with all these cubans staring at me in a 300 yearold gym, the olympic coach smirking at me, ¨leedle by leedle, breen. leedle by leedle.¨ i went over to the unversity and took a crack at what i wrote a while ago but it came out differently. it´s always different when a girl´s on your mind...
havana´s the usual back alley with the gasoline
rainbow trickling down sweetening the eyes of
everybody, valentines day everyday kisses blowing like
a danlion bashed to pieces slapping cheeks and ears
and it´s kinda like virgin snow at recess getting a
juice box poured on it and scooped up into your mouth.
and it´s fucked up. but fucked up in real ways. always
a movie. some real movie playing somewhere that got it
right where ours is just a mexican soap opera on
prozac. the only meal that´s worth a damn is soda crackers
and some of the people from last time are dead but
died here... and i don´t think that´s an accident...
and that´s a weird consideration to have in the
morning. like waking up on a monday but FEELING like
it was sunday and having to drag your ass somewhere
you don´t wanna go. and that makes me a little sad.
cept here people would take the news in stride. which
would make your little dance have some ok music i
guess. and the little kids are everywhere playing.
rolling in the dirt. next to chickens sometimes. and
the dogs are horrible. like knawed off erasers and
pencils. 47th-world nightmare goya beasts you´d be
afraid to piss or spit on. and the art deco blasts up
to the sky but not as sky scrapers, cause the sky
ain´t itchy over here. i don´t know why. day or night,
dawn or dusk, it´s just happy, like some mysterious
but tranquil expression on an old woman´s face. one
big jowel of popsical blue. and it gets sliced in the
morning into brilliant yellows and pinks, and the
cotton candy of the clouds sponges some up and it
greases the roofs and sillouttes the men lumbering to
work, and it even gets in the spokes of the bicycles
that two people share, one side saddle with the other
kicking at the pedals, wind worried tires... and
always eye contact. and there´s no prophylactic for
how it works on your insides. they´re done. and they
know it. and you aren´t the same. and you don´t want a
photo. and there´s always tile under your feet. and
the back alley has thimbles of coffee to keep you
sharp even tho everybody´s kinda bored. it´s one big
shipwreck community. nobody even remembers the siren
let alone her song. even if it was slavery. it seems
like it musta been a girl. same rules might apply. who
knows.
but all the girls back home know how to break your balls but they forgot how to break your heart. and if this is my garden a flower was stolen and lives about 3hrs north of here.
a rose festers where it smells sweetest first...
too early to quote shakespeare. no nicotine working in the brain. suns out. the boulevard looks like linen hung out waiting for somebody happy to come home.
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