I used to wear
sensible white underwear.
Now,a black lace bra
underneath a businesslike
cotton shirt on Monday,
my amulet/scapular against
the mundane.
Fishnet stockings,
flashing
between sensible loafer
and trouser cuff,
a private entertainment
on the way
to the copier.
My favorite thong
and the hug of my jeans
reminding me to walk
like a woman.
meant to be seen-
or perhaps only sensed
like a shade of infrared light
beyond the visible range,
felt, not seen
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
Beggars and Charity in the Argentine manner
Unlike Tijuana, where the beggars bring their tired children to peep "chiclets" at me like fragile,
homely nestlings or flaunt their disabling cataracts and birth defects on the street,
the beggars on the way to Plaza Dorrego are beautiful magical creatures
that will greet you from another world for spare change.
A crowned and veiled Madonna on a pedestal,
all white lace, glitter and pearls suddenly comes to life to bend down and whisper
blessings and admonitions in the ear of a child holding her papa's hand.
A sad eight foot tall Charlie Chaplin holds out his bowler
and waits for some one to pay him to play with his cane.
Of course there is a Gardel with his guitar slung across his back and another,
an old Delilah with torn fishnet stockings and faded red plastic rose.
She was here last time we were here my friend tells me.
We are going to the flea market in Plaza Dorrego
past windows of elegant antique stores
filled with the remains of dented opulence and pawned homeless heirlooms.
For years now, El Indio, his braided waist length pony tail down the inside of his shirt,
has performed in the middle of this square, for free, a show about the history of tango.
His beautiful, earnest partner passes the hat at the end.
All the money goes to help the poor.
Our landlord pays a young, unwed mother to be our "maid"
She is supposed to be there from 8am to 8pm to clean and cook for us .
She makes coffee in a sort of cotton sock thing
and sets the table with fine china and coffee in a big thermos pitcher
then I don't see her till the next morning unless
I walk in on her cooking her own supper
with her toddler sitting on a chair next to the stove.
I have tried to get her to clean the bathtub.
I take her in there and mime scrubbing
and point out the mold growing on the grout
between the travertine tiles.
nada.
I get my tutor to tell her what I want .
nada.
I tell the landlord.
nada.
My friend and I despair of ever getting rid of the
baby-rabbit-size dust balls under the bed
and enough light bulbs
to fill the empty sockets
on the chandelier.
As far as I can see
there is no United Way here
with fancy PowerPoint presentations
and easy monthly deductions
from your paycheck.
The charity of the people has a face and hands
and is done mano a mano.
homely nestlings or flaunt their disabling cataracts and birth defects on the street,
the beggars on the way to Plaza Dorrego are beautiful magical creatures
that will greet you from another world for spare change.
A crowned and veiled Madonna on a pedestal,
all white lace, glitter and pearls suddenly comes to life to bend down and whisper
blessings and admonitions in the ear of a child holding her papa's hand.
A sad eight foot tall Charlie Chaplin holds out his bowler
and waits for some one to pay him to play with his cane.
Of course there is a Gardel with his guitar slung across his back and another,
an old Delilah with torn fishnet stockings and faded red plastic rose.
She was here last time we were here my friend tells me.
We are going to the flea market in Plaza Dorrego
past windows of elegant antique stores
filled with the remains of dented opulence and pawned homeless heirlooms.
For years now, El Indio, his braided waist length pony tail down the inside of his shirt,
has performed in the middle of this square, for free, a show about the history of tango.
His beautiful, earnest partner passes the hat at the end.
All the money goes to help the poor.
Our landlord pays a young, unwed mother to be our "maid"
She is supposed to be there from 8am to 8pm to clean and cook for us .
She makes coffee in a sort of cotton sock thing
and sets the table with fine china and coffee in a big thermos pitcher
then I don't see her till the next morning unless
I walk in on her cooking her own supper
with her toddler sitting on a chair next to the stove.
I have tried to get her to clean the bathtub.
I take her in there and mime scrubbing
and point out the mold growing on the grout
between the travertine tiles.
nada.
I get my tutor to tell her what I want .
nada.
I tell the landlord.
nada.
My friend and I despair of ever getting rid of the
baby-rabbit-size dust balls under the bed
and enough light bulbs
to fill the empty sockets
on the chandelier.
As far as I can see
there is no United Way here
with fancy PowerPoint presentations
and easy monthly deductions
from your paycheck.
The charity of the people has a face and hands
and is done mano a mano.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
tiger safari
If I were to go on safari,
to hunt a tiger
on his own turf,
I would take a camera
or a gun
to capture his essence
in two dimensions
or three.
I could have his image
but not his breath and body,
or have his skin
but lose his spirit.
I think the zoo
best for me.
I want no souvenirs
except the ones
in my mind.
to hunt a tiger
on his own turf,
I would take a camera
or a gun
to capture his essence
in two dimensions
or three.
I could have his image
but not his breath and body,
or have his skin
but lose his spirit.
I think the zoo
best for me.
I want no souvenirs
except the ones
in my mind.
Monday, November 14, 2005
tigers in New York
there's a story on TV
about a man in New York
who was keeping
a tiger in his apartment.
it had National Enquirer
flair, certain to catch the
channel surfing eye.
he bought it as a tiny illegal cub
and ended by keeping it
locked in a bedroom
unable to do anything except
crack the door open
long enough to throw meat in.
surely not
what he had envisioned
when he first brought it home.
he was finally outed
by the neighbors
due to the terrific stink
and Animal Control came
to rescue the tiger.
moral of the story: Beware!
tigers do not make good house pets!
better to visit them in the zoo.
every one much happier,
no one hurt.
about a man in New York
who was keeping
a tiger in his apartment.
it had National Enquirer
flair, certain to catch the
channel surfing eye.
he bought it as a tiny illegal cub
and ended by keeping it
locked in a bedroom
unable to do anything except
crack the door open
long enough to throw meat in.
surely not
what he had envisioned
when he first brought it home.
he was finally outed
by the neighbors
due to the terrific stink
and Animal Control came
to rescue the tiger.
moral of the story: Beware!
tigers do not make good house pets!
better to visit them in the zoo.
every one much happier,
no one hurt.
Friday, November 11, 2005
tiger eyes
what does he see
when he looks at me?
what tigerish thoughts
as we gaze at each other through
the bars of the cage?
would he like to maul me,
take his revenge on my skin and bones
for the wrong done him by my kind?
play with me the way my cat plays with
a mouse she has caught and crippled,
a passing afternoon entertainment
pleasant to the feline mind?
perhaps if I opened the door
he would just escape
out of my presence
as quickly
as possible.
that,
my worst
nightmare.
when he looks at me?
what tigerish thoughts
as we gaze at each other through
the bars of the cage?
would he like to maul me,
take his revenge on my skin and bones
for the wrong done him by my kind?
play with me the way my cat plays with
a mouse she has caught and crippled,
a passing afternoon entertainment
pleasant to the feline mind?
perhaps if I opened the door
he would just escape
out of my presence
as quickly
as possible.
that,
my worst
nightmare.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
tiger baiting
Why do I have the
childish urge to poke him
with my word-stick,
jump up and down in print
and in person,
elicit a response of some,
any kind!
Is he afraid
I want to possess him?
Maybe so,
but only for
three minutes at a time!
I long to commune
with his tiger-soul
the way I commune with the sun
and the bandoneon by night.
speechless, through skin and bone
bypassing the tangle of gaudy
words and lucid, rational
thought.
childish urge to poke him
with my word-stick,
jump up and down in print
and in person,
elicit a response of some,
any kind!
Is he afraid
I want to possess him?
Maybe so,
but only for
three minutes at a time!
I long to commune
with his tiger-soul
the way I commune with the sun
and the bandoneon by night.
speechless, through skin and bone
bypassing the tangle of gaudy
words and lucid, rational
thought.
Friday, November 04, 2005
Exiles
The Argentines I have met
live in exile,
They didn't want to leave
and now they don't want to stay.
Men, women, children without a country,
but two passports.
Migrating between continents, hemispheres,
balancing the need for carnal bread
with the thirst for spiritual, sacramental wine
they drink from the chalice of the Buenos Aires night.
Perpetually leaving/arriving,
more akin to Jews than Gypsies,
having never lost
the internal heart compass
that always points
home.
live in exile,
They didn't want to leave
and now they don't want to stay.
Men, women, children without a country,
but two passports.
Migrating between continents, hemispheres,
balancing the need for carnal bread
with the thirst for spiritual, sacramental wine
they drink from the chalice of the Buenos Aires night.
Perpetually leaving/arriving,
more akin to Jews than Gypsies,
having never lost
the internal heart compass
that always points
home.
Spirits at La Viruta
Silver hair,
Golden age tanda.
I know after the first song,
he is dancing
with a ghost in his arms.
I
remind him
of someone
else.
He invites me to
his table,
an elegant bucket
of champagne,
two glasses on the linen.
But this ghost of his,
she's jealous.
Her icy breath on my neck
turns the fine wine
to ash.
I finish it too quickly,
anxious to escape.
Unquestioning,
he gallantly escorts me
back to the safety
of my own table.
Does he come to
exorcise her
or hold séance?
Golden age tanda.
I know after the first song,
he is dancing
with a ghost in his arms.
I
remind him
of someone
else.
He invites me to
his table,
an elegant bucket
of champagne,
two glasses on the linen.
But this ghost of his,
she's jealous.
Her icy breath on my neck
turns the fine wine
to ash.
I finish it too quickly,
anxious to escape.
Unquestioning,
he gallantly escorts me
back to the safety
of my own table.
Does he come to
exorcise her
or hold séance?
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Catch and release at Nino Bien
He doesn't dance
he swims, beautiful, liquid
immersed, unconscious
in the swirling music.
He sets the hook with
his water colored eyes,
scoops me up
in the silken net
of his arms.
I slip into the stream
of his consciousness,
breathe his breath,
live a lifetime before we
take one step.
Gently he releases me.
I shiver as I shed
my new grown piscine skin,
gasping on the bank,
longing to be a fish again.
he swims, beautiful, liquid
immersed, unconscious
in the swirling music.
He sets the hook with
his water colored eyes,
scoops me up
in the silken net
of his arms.
I slip into the stream
of his consciousness,
breathe his breath,
live a lifetime before we
take one step.
Gently he releases me.
I shiver as I shed
my new grown piscine skin,
gasping on the bank,
longing to be a fish again.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Magic shoes
At the milonga
I sit in the row of girls
and compare notes
on homemade remedies
and orthopedic options
for various ailments of the foot.
We watch shoes go by,
suede ruffles, metallic polka dots,
silver glitter and slinky straps.
Cinderella had her glass slippers
Dorothy her red shoes
My magic shoes are black
and have been resoled twice.
No Comme Il Faut stilettos for me
I need shoes I can walk miles in,
Miles backwards and with my eyes closed.
I sit in the row of girls
and compare notes
on homemade remedies
and orthopedic options
for various ailments of the foot.
We watch shoes go by,
suede ruffles, metallic polka dots,
silver glitter and slinky straps.
Cinderella had her glass slippers
Dorothy her red shoes
My magic shoes are black
and have been resoled twice.
No Comme Il Faut stilettos for me
I need shoes I can walk miles in,
Miles backwards and with my eyes closed.
Tiger rendezvous
I'm going to visit the tiger at the zoo.
He's beautiful and dangerous
and I want to take him home.
Caught and brought here,
he speaks tiger and
maybe understands
some human tongue,
but not mine.
Since I can't have him,
I visit him where he is safe from me
and I am safe from him.
My skin is safe
but not my mind,
there he prowls
all night long.
He's beautiful and dangerous
and I want to take him home.
Caught and brought here,
he speaks tiger and
maybe understands
some human tongue,
but not mine.
Since I can't have him,
I visit him where he is safe from me
and I am safe from him.
My skin is safe
but not my mind,
there he prowls
all night long.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
2) Black
My three dimensions
reduced to a silhouette
concentrating
the essence of me
like an espresso..
dark, strong, hot.
reduced to a silhouette
concentrating
the essence of me
like an espresso..
dark, strong, hot.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Counterclockwise
Have you heard of vortexes, leys,
places of intersecting energy fields,
natural power lines in the earth
magnetic perhaps?
Places often sacred
from ancient times and civilizations:
Native American, Celtic.
There's one at 44th and Upton,
Stonehenge is a famous one.
The trees are twisted in these places,
clockwise or counter clock wise
and with old, new age wisdom
the intersections can be divined
with an amethyst dangling on a chain,
the stone swinging in circles,
sometimes 600rpm!
According to the initiated,
clockwise movement actualizes ones dreams,
counterclockwise movement brings release.
The ronda goes counter clockwise.
On PBS there is a travel program about Turkey.
It show the famous Sunni dervishes
spinning in their trances,
turning counterclockwise.
I watch carefully
and get up off the couch to try it,
to be sure of the direction.
Wonder what they know
about the mysteries of counterclockwise motion
on the human heart.
places of intersecting energy fields,
natural power lines in the earth
magnetic perhaps?
Places often sacred
from ancient times and civilizations:
Native American, Celtic.
There's one at 44th and Upton,
Stonehenge is a famous one.
The trees are twisted in these places,
clockwise or counter clock wise
and with old, new age wisdom
the intersections can be divined
with an amethyst dangling on a chain,
the stone swinging in circles,
sometimes 600rpm!
According to the initiated,
clockwise movement actualizes ones dreams,
counterclockwise movement brings release.
The ronda goes counter clockwise.
On PBS there is a travel program about Turkey.
It show the famous Sunni dervishes
spinning in their trances,
turning counterclockwise.
I watch carefully
and get up off the couch to try it,
to be sure of the direction.
Wonder what they know
about the mysteries of counterclockwise motion
on the human heart.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
my silver pinkie ring
I have ring I bought at the flea market in Plaza Dorego,
a man's ring I'm quite certain
It has that little dreaming angel
from the ceiling of the Sistine chapel on it,
it's head resting in the upturned palm,
an image very popular with those that
believe in angels and
like Victorian and country things
It's not quite round anymore,
molded to the finger that wore it (I imagine),
to countless milongas
where it witnessed scenes of
real-life-soap-opera drama
on the edge of the pista,
betrayal, lust, impossible love
A talisman familiar to
his wife
his lover
his favorite partners
Who, I wonder, upon his death
fought over the precious heirloom
or
was it discarded for pennies
in a rummage sale
disposing of the contents
of his rented room?
a man's ring I'm quite certain
It has that little dreaming angel
from the ceiling of the Sistine chapel on it,
it's head resting in the upturned palm,
an image very popular with those that
believe in angels and
like Victorian and country things
It's not quite round anymore,
molded to the finger that wore it (I imagine),
to countless milongas
where it witnessed scenes of
real-life-soap-opera drama
on the edge of the pista,
betrayal, lust, impossible love
A talisman familiar to
his wife
his lover
his favorite partners
Who, I wonder, upon his death
fought over the precious heirloom
or
was it discarded for pennies
in a rummage sale
disposing of the contents
of his rented room?
Vampires
Last summer in an orgy of trashy novels
I read ALL the Anne Rice vampire chronicles.
One disheveled secondhand
paperback copy after another.
I'm secretly amused by the similarities I find.
I could be in one of those books,
rising from my lavish coffin
as the sky turns shades of midnight blue, burgundy, granite.
(Vampires see very well in the dark according to Ms Rice)
dressed slightly over the top,
off to taste the delicacies of the night.
None of her vampires dance tango,
but they should.
They would understand the soul-wail of the bandoneon
and the mourning of Gardel over his lost city and loves.
The rage and rebellion of Pugliese and Piazolla
crashing over their critics and jailors,
Eternal outsiders all.
Their bodies crave only the sweet blood of their victims,
a facsimile of passion from their past human life.
As wanton in their desire as any human
seeking intercourse of the usual kind.
They drink in the memories of their prey
with the blood.
I read ALL the Anne Rice vampire chronicles.
One disheveled secondhand
paperback copy after another.
I'm secretly amused by the similarities I find.
I could be in one of those books,
rising from my lavish coffin
as the sky turns shades of midnight blue, burgundy, granite.
(Vampires see very well in the dark according to Ms Rice)
dressed slightly over the top,
off to taste the delicacies of the night.
None of her vampires dance tango,
but they should.
They would understand the soul-wail of the bandoneon
and the mourning of Gardel over his lost city and loves.
The rage and rebellion of Pugliese and Piazolla
crashing over their critics and jailors,
Eternal outsiders all.
Their bodies crave only the sweet blood of their victims,
a facsimile of passion from their past human life.
As wanton in their desire as any human
seeking intercourse of the usual kind.
They drink in the memories of their prey
with the blood.
Monday, October 17, 2005
La Flor de Metal/Buenos Aires
Outside the Museo de Bellas Artes,
on the pampas-size lawn there is a single flower.
giant man made petals.
The heart of the flower
exposed to politics and acts of God,
the petals reaching for the sky.
Enormous, red.
Tiny lights
along the edges
for night.
Seen from the shoulder of a 767
or the back of a taxi,
It sparkles.
According to the back of the postcard
it is able to open and close every day,
with the rising and setting of the sun.
My guide tells me it has opened and closed
only once,
on the day it was made.
It's stuck.
Open.
on the pampas-size lawn there is a single flower.
The heart of the flower
exposed to politics and acts of God,
the petals reaching for the sky.
Enormous, red.
Tiny lights
along the edges
for night.
Seen from the shoulder of a 767
or the back of a taxi,
It sparkles.
According to the back of the postcard
it is able to open and close every day,
with the rising and setting of the sun.
My guide tells me it has opened and closed
only once,
on the day it was made.
It's stuck.
Open.
The baby buggy
My friends carry me
a new born divorcee
still reeling from the experience of birth
away to Buenos Aires
in a baby buggy with silver wings.
Like new parents, they make sure I get good food to eat,
enough sleep, exercise and mental stimulation.
We settle into each other's biorhythms and
I live for 2 1/2 weeks in the present tense only
(which is also the tense I am learning castijano in).
They introduce me to their friends and favorite places
make sure I see all the must see spots,
Recoleta, Plaza Doreggo, the Obelisk!
They take me out to the milongas like taking a toddler to the park for the first time.
I carry my own key and money when we go out at night
"just in case" they say.
I stand at the top of the "slide" and look down-
decide it's still too scary for more than 3 minutes at a time.
a new born divorcee
still reeling from the experience of birth
away to Buenos Aires
in a baby buggy with silver wings.
Like new parents, they make sure I get good food to eat,
enough sleep, exercise and mental stimulation.
We settle into each other's biorhythms and
I live for 2 1/2 weeks in the present tense only
(which is also the tense I am learning castijano in).
They introduce me to their friends and favorite places
make sure I see all the must see spots,
Recoleta, Plaza Doreggo, the Obelisk!
They take me out to the milongas like taking a toddler to the park for the first time.
I carry my own key and money when we go out at night
"just in case" they say.
I stand at the top of the "slide" and look down-
decide it's still too scary for more than 3 minutes at a time.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Revelations in the subte
Revelations 21:19
"...and the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones..."
-- The apostle John describing new Jerusalem, King James Version
I go down to come up in this man made heaven.
The walls of the subte are tiled with gems created of earth, human
hands and love.
They walk by oblivious to Paradise only an arm' s length away.
I get on and off on just to quarry it for my mind's eye.
In exchange for 70 centavos
I get a transfer good for 3 hours and a subterranean treasure hunt.
Malachite Mediterranean themed murals.
Iridescent earth-colored Edenic scenes of pastoral bliss.
Lapis-blue arabesques.
No graffiti here, no need.
That they save for government buildings
-kill the monkey.
"...and the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all manner of precious stones..."
-- The apostle John describing new Jerusalem, King James Version
I go down to come up in this man made heaven.
The walls of the subte are tiled with gems created of earth, human
hands and love.
They walk by oblivious to Paradise only an arm' s length away.
I get on and off on just to quarry it for my mind's eye.
In exchange for 70 centavos
I get a transfer good for 3 hours and a subterranean treasure hunt.
Malachite Mediterranean themed murals.
Iridescent earth-colored Edenic scenes of pastoral bliss.
Lapis-blue arabesques.
No graffiti here, no need.
That they save for government buildings
-kill the monkey.
The cats of Recoleta
The souls of the dead come out to play?
These are not the skinny feral mange-infested cats that used come out
of the scrub behind my house in California.
Or the spooky matted barn cats with the eternal litter of kittens in
my grandmother's hay loft.
Like Egyptian/Argentine royalty they materialize from the underworld
into the watery sunlight of April.
Sleek, perfectly manicured and coiffed
Two sit meditating the ruin of their neighbor's monument.
One sleeps, sprawled like a heavenly king,
an orange god-cat in the middle of the miniature street
oblivious to the tourists.
We are the only pilgrims to the city of the dead
witness to these stone valentines
made to honor past beauties
and redeem fallen scoundrels
with marble and stained glass.
These are not the skinny feral mange-infested cats that used come out
of the scrub behind my house in California.
Or the spooky matted barn cats with the eternal litter of kittens in
my grandmother's hay loft.
Like Egyptian/Argentine royalty they materialize from the underworld
into the watery sunlight of April.
Sleek, perfectly manicured and coiffed
Two sit meditating the ruin of their neighbor's monument.
One sleeps, sprawled like a heavenly king,
an orange god-cat in the middle of the miniature street
oblivious to the tourists.
We are the only pilgrims to the city of the dead
witness to these stone valentines
made to honor past beauties
and redeem fallen scoundrels
with marble and stained glass.
Toothpaste from Argentina
This morning, the morning after, I reach for my toothbrush and toothpaste.
The taste of 747 cabin air still on my tongue.
The tube proudly declares that it is sugar free! even to me with my smattering of Spanish comprehension.
Only in Argentina, plastic surgeon paradise and designer jean heaven would they think to put THAT on a tube
of toothpaste.
I check my new tube of Crest in the bathroom closet. It has "sorbitol" and "saccharine" on the list of ingredients but
the label is more concerned with obliterating plaque, gingivitis and tooth decay inside my mouth.
Is my mouth SUPPOSED to be germ free?
Only in America would they think sterile = healthy.
I decide to use the Argentine toothpaste.
Am I home-
or not?
The taste of 747 cabin air still on my tongue.
The tube proudly declares that it is sugar free! even to me with my smattering of Spanish comprehension.
Only in Argentina, plastic surgeon paradise and designer jean heaven would they think to put THAT on a tube
of toothpaste.
I check my new tube of Crest in the bathroom closet. It has "sorbitol" and "saccharine" on the list of ingredients but
the label is more concerned with obliterating plaque, gingivitis and tooth decay inside my mouth.
Is my mouth SUPPOSED to be germ free?
Only in America would they think sterile = healthy.
I decide to use the Argentine toothpaste.
Am I home-
or not?
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Blue and white ribbon
You see it everywhere-
Painted curlicues of blue and white ribbon
around the numbers on the collectivo,
blue and white ribbon tied around paper packages of media luna
and little snippets on labels of dulce de leche and jam.
They love her.
On the hand painted sign
and the made-for-tango-tourists-like-me t-shirt
I buy outside Recoleta.
They sell her.
On the tattered poster of the world champion futbol team in the pizzeria
and the endless game on the TV hanging from the ceiling.
They celebrate her.
On the Plaza de Mayo the grandmothers,
They mourn her.
Painted curlicues of blue and white ribbon
around the numbers on the collectivo,
blue and white ribbon tied around paper packages of media luna
and little snippets on labels of dulce de leche and jam.
They love her.
On the hand painted sign
and the made-for-tango-tourists-like-me t-shirt
I buy outside Recoleta.
They sell her.
On the tattered poster of the world champion futbol team in the pizzeria
and the endless game on the TV hanging from the ceiling.
They celebrate her.
On the Plaza de Mayo the grandmothers,
They mourn her.
La Confetieria Ideal
Like a body suffering hypothermia,
conserving heat,
sacrificing the extremities
to preserve the precious heart.
We walk in
past one tray of desiccated pastries
in yards of dusty glass case,
all the chairs up on the tables
and
a bare bulb in the ladies room,
no toilet paper.
From up stairs the sound of Muchachos de Tango
six bandoneon players,
none of them under 70
but playing like a heart attack.
In the air the extra tang of possible disaster
due to stroke or aneurysms on stage
added to the usual mix of music and bodies
foreign and local.
Like going to a bullfight.
conserving heat,
sacrificing the extremities
to preserve the precious heart.
We walk in
past one tray of desiccated pastries
in yards of dusty glass case,
all the chairs up on the tables
and
a bare bulb in the ladies room,
no toilet paper.
From up stairs the sound of Muchachos de Tango
six bandoneon players,
none of them under 70
but playing like a heart attack.
In the air the extra tang of possible disaster
due to stroke or aneurysms on stage
added to the usual mix of music and bodies
foreign and local.
Like going to a bullfight.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Hide and Seek
When I was little we used to play games in the dark, kick the can, hide and seek, capture the flag.
Everyone played.
Joanie, the little blonde curly top
(I would have killed to have that hair!)
from the top of the street.
Her dad smoked!
And they were Catholic!
And she was an only child!
I ate baloney sandwiches every time I was there for lunch-
Bliss!
The Stevens sisters,
one fat, one skinny,
there were lots of other kids in that house too but we played with them.
Me and my little sister,
the scary big boys from the house
that you couldn't see from the street 'cause of all the overgrown bushes,
the ones that sometimes chased us home after school
for the fun of seeing us scream.
In the dark.
Under the streetlights and in the really black shadows
next to the houses and in the backyards,
all up and down the street.
In the yards of people that had kids and some that didn't.
Whether they wanted us to or not.
I still play games in the dark.
Everyone played.
Joanie, the little blonde curly top
(I would have killed to have that hair!)
from the top of the street.
Her dad smoked!
And they were Catholic!
And she was an only child!
I ate baloney sandwiches every time I was there for lunch-
Bliss!
The Stevens sisters,
one fat, one skinny,
there were lots of other kids in that house too but we played with them.
Me and my little sister,
the scary big boys from the house
that you couldn't see from the street 'cause of all the overgrown bushes,
the ones that sometimes chased us home after school
for the fun of seeing us scream.
In the dark.
Under the streetlights and in the really black shadows
next to the houses and in the backyards,
all up and down the street.
In the yards of people that had kids and some that didn't.
Whether they wanted us to or not.
I still play games in the dark.
shopping list
My friend is going to Buenos Aires and asks if I have a shopping list. Yes, I tell him but nothing you can bring back.
I want to smell autumn on the strange trees that grow there, taste the stollen from my favorite bakery, hear the traffic outside the window early in the morning and the lovely round sound of Spanish on an Argentine tongue. I want to feel the water close by in the texture of the air, see familiar faces on the street going in the same direction as I am-to class or a milonga at 2am.
I want to be in a place where people still know how to make things and fix things and creation is considered everyone's job and comes as naturally as breathing. I want to take two hour lunches and naps so I can dance till the wee hours. I want to know the man I buy my bread from and the girl that does my laundry.
I want to live in a house like an old movie starlet, glamorous, full of memories and gently decaying. A place with a key in a shape my grandmother would remember, questionable plumbing, marble floors and an orchid growing out of a crack on the facade like a beauty mark on her ancient face. Can you bring that back??
An Argentine exile without an Argentine passport.
I want to smell autumn on the strange trees that grow there, taste the stollen from my favorite bakery, hear the traffic outside the window early in the morning and the lovely round sound of Spanish on an Argentine tongue. I want to feel the water close by in the texture of the air, see familiar faces on the street going in the same direction as I am-to class or a milonga at 2am.
I want to be in a place where people still know how to make things and fix things and creation is considered everyone's job and comes as naturally as breathing. I want to take two hour lunches and naps so I can dance till the wee hours. I want to know the man I buy my bread from and the girl that does my laundry.
I want to live in a house like an old movie starlet, glamorous, full of memories and gently decaying. A place with a key in a shape my grandmother would remember, questionable plumbing, marble floors and an orchid growing out of a crack on the facade like a beauty mark on her ancient face. Can you bring that back??
An Argentine exile without an Argentine passport.
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