backwards
Ive been thinking about going back to colombia, and its made me ask the question why. I cant go back without answering it. someone wrote me a letter from la, and kinda patronizingly said "have you found what you were looking for" and I said, "no I wasnt looking for anything anyway"...but it has to go back to the ocean...my thinking...does the broken boat plank that ends up a board on the beach in rockaway, look for the black rusted paint can thathas become lodged into its core?...I told my friend from medellin to look for a finca for me in the hills above envigado...he was happy, but asked "Im interested, what did you find here?" It cant be the beatiful whores and the cheap gambling that draws me back to the chaotic epicenter of pablo escobars former backstreets.
a table of friends laughed at my hands, when I layed them on the table for inspection. I told them I worked 15 hour days from age 18 to 30, and that I didnt work anymore. they didnt believe me. A big man that was mixing concrete in the morning for a bathroom on the second floor, was drinking a glass of wine at the chair accross from me, and stuck out his broken paw. 5 fat digits swolen with blood ready to burst from the skins first abrasion. His wife a fat cook wearing a sweatshirt stood behind him slumped over his shoulder like a bag of rocks, like I had seen the old women carry in chiapas, and up the hills from the border of cheutemal, her own palms sat light as doves on the tops of his broken knuckles. "these are the hands of a man that works"
I have to think there is something I can do well. there is something about medellin, there is something about the desperation that is like the ocean. colombia jostles back and forth like a tide pool caught between rocks. It might be whores and cards that pulls me back, but it cant be to play them, it must be to deny them, to make something of them, to include myself in the desperation.
I dreamed about a steel strap cinch for 5 months before I wrapped one around a broken chair, and a boulder of foam I found in the winter piles in rockaway. when I made those to things stuck together, I felt powerful, like I could do something. I have to find something strong enough to cinch together everything I have found in colombia, the whores and the cards, and the donkey cartsdragging paper up the hill. liseths beautiful eyes, next to her mothers fear for her daughter. the deep blue pool of the intercontinental, the sancocho at 6 am in miniorista....my green laughing hands...shining the suns light on that broken boat pining for a painters can.
a table of friends laughed at my hands, when I layed them on the table for inspection. I told them I worked 15 hour days from age 18 to 30, and that I didnt work anymore. they didnt believe me. A big man that was mixing concrete in the morning for a bathroom on the second floor, was drinking a glass of wine at the chair accross from me, and stuck out his broken paw. 5 fat digits swolen with blood ready to burst from the skins first abrasion. His wife a fat cook wearing a sweatshirt stood behind him slumped over his shoulder like a bag of rocks, like I had seen the old women carry in chiapas, and up the hills from the border of cheutemal, her own palms sat light as doves on the tops of his broken knuckles. "these are the hands of a man that works"
I have to think there is something I can do well. there is something about medellin, there is something about the desperation that is like the ocean. colombia jostles back and forth like a tide pool caught between rocks. It might be whores and cards that pulls me back, but it cant be to play them, it must be to deny them, to make something of them, to include myself in the desperation.
I dreamed about a steel strap cinch for 5 months before I wrapped one around a broken chair, and a boulder of foam I found in the winter piles in rockaway. when I made those to things stuck together, I felt powerful, like I could do something. I have to find something strong enough to cinch together everything I have found in colombia, the whores and the cards, and the donkey cartsdragging paper up the hill. liseths beautiful eyes, next to her mothers fear for her daughter. the deep blue pool of the intercontinental, the sancocho at 6 am in miniorista....my green laughing hands...shining the suns light on that broken boat pining for a painters can.
posted by bigworld06 at 6:07 AM
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