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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

3) Black

Color of sin/covers a multitude of sins
Either way/I wear it.

2) Black

My three dimensions
reduced to a silhouette
concentrating
the essence of me
like an espresso..
dark, strong, hot.

1) Black

absence
of light
or sum
of all colors.
Which am I
tonight?