fine tutalage GAUTEMALA

I took a ride today on horseback, to the village above the avocado farm where Ive been sleeping for 3 days. I swung my leg up into the saddle, it has been a while since I was on a horse, marco met me on top the road where I parked my car, he had on a white shirt and jeans tucked into brown leather boots up to his knees, maybe to large for him, a gringo hand me down of some spanish leather, strapped with spurs, he hand a gold rimmed tooth, an exclamation to a smile thatanchored a grey felt hat, and no eyes, just the suggestion of lashes caught ina parisols shade. I scoop, and plunge deep into the flat black back, like a carribean whore with all the trimmings, she adapts to me, her gate, soft as a marionettes sword, the two of us intwined in school scant potholes that pin my feet to the stirrup as me waist detaches and spins its arbor free for drilling, a serated spline making facile ribbs on my jutterbug. My dad was a cowboy, or vaquero as they call them down here. when he was young, in the porcupine hills of the canadien rockies when he was 18 on a horse named trixie. the porcupine hills in 1946 must have been alot like what the machete mongrels call bluefield manner, east of the lagoon of nicaragua, east away from the lagoon towards the carribean, east through the 3 points, where the peace corp doesnt send its enlisters, east into drunk indian slave breadth, where getting carved up is easier than getting lost. I want to be a vaquero there, to prove to my father, god rest his soul, to prove to him, I’m not a tradesman, or an artist, to prove, to surrender to finally bury, my father there in the marsh land of nicaraguan cow country, to bury myself there, abandon, what I think is good , abandon what Im trying to make work or salvage, or purport, abandon my fathers son, son of a doctors doctors doctor, son of a cowboy poet, son of a man whos father built a house with his bare teeth, ripping the flesh from the shale rocks of the saint lawrence, bury his father, a man with no eyes or face, who cured tiburculosis while hanging from a tree branch carrying a citys water to a village of torn infants, and then dying heroicly under a dragons paw. i want to bury them all, in my blood if I have to, under a machetes tutalage, under the bluefields, of silence.