the maggie bit

I sat on a rock drinking the powdered milk frapuccino thing that nicholas made. latino was standing over me and I could see for the first time that he was a she, I didn’t like getting close to latinos feet. she just stood there looking at me, I was drinking the coffee, and I had commando pinned to the ground with my free hand, I was already covered in pulga bites. I looked down at commando, he was a dirty brindle his ribs poked through, but even if he had been well fed, he was a strange looking mut, I liked him. His previous owner had shaped his ears so they where very short and round ontop, Nicholas said for hog hunting. I started practicing my Spanish making names for him. “ratta flaca, commando ratta flacka. Senior ratton. Nicholas was laughing handing out frapuccinos on the marshy grass that surrounds the hills that lead down from the small bridges. Maybe he was laughing cause I was mixing feminine and masculine nound and pronouns, Spanish people find this endlessly funny, it would be like laughing at someone who said “these house is nice” Nicholas had a way of making you feel special. He seemed to have everything going for him, in a way I never did. He had a good body, he was an officer, his father was a high ranking officer in the military, he had good sunglasses, cruised punte del este in the summer, played guitar, sang songs with that deep beautiful sincere voice. He would have a good life, what a lucky fucking dog, getting adopted by him.

Latino stood there that black massive jumper, with the thouroughbred legs like a black man sweating in the fields, beautiful and full of rage, her lip was pulled in against the bit, her nose was flat, aerodynamicly positioned like a submarine porthole on top of her long head. I could see the disdain she had, for me and commando. In her eyes we where one and the same. It occurred to me right then that she was an indisputable Maggie from cat on a hot tin roof, if she where in la, shed be a shoe in for the role in any community theatre production. Community theatre productions suck, theres no real tenessee in them, no humilliation no desperation, its all just sets and jokes without the struggle. come to think of it commando was a tenessee character too, but latino was a Maggie, me and commando where just a couple of no neck children, a flash in the pan. We where the flavor of the minute, basking in the glory of nicholass attention, how many polo games could Nicholas take commando to and have it still be novelty. I got all this looking into latinos eyes, but when I looked into Nicholas you forgot all that and it seemed that anything was possible. Guys like that are crazy dangerous, real heartbreakers, cause you never see it coming.

a letter from london

I got to the end of her letter, where she wrote the worrd "alifscato" and thought she had transitioned into another language. when she was transmitting recipes for fennel and tomato salsa over cuscus I was right in the pan, moms bakerware
cookie tin, on the gold star linoleum kitchen counter "melted butter but dont
brown" she said, and then followed immediately by "what will you sculpt
out of". tacaurembos got a cool breeze, and the sounds of the small town in the early morning include brazen un muffled steel pipes exausting two stroke puch fifty cee cee put puts, like morrocco but less zanny and with fewer moving parts. Ive had some bad coffee in a dark cafe off the square where an old man drank a beer in the corner.¨all that place needs is a striped tablecloth, something french next to the open doors onto the park, but I sit there anyway and drink my coffee, theres a little light on top of the mans beret from the flourescent kitchen glare, where the bent alluminum pots are way to big for the tabletop gas range, that the woman cooks on, the gas leaks out from the burner, and flickers at the tube clamp at the base of the propane can. Im heading back to the estancia to pick up my horse and start my trip down the coast. but the mention of fennel in the letter, reminds me of a summer in los angeles where I made fennel salad evryday for 2 months. Id shave the fennel into transparent wisps, with a razor skinner, then with the same tool slice green apple and fresh hard parmesan over a bed of arugala. "what will you sculpt in"
she asked that right between the recipes and the last word "alifscato". she asked if I had crossed the rio plata by alifscato. I can see the scooters and trucks pass the park in the reflection of the screen as I write..the muted green and blue from the plaza trees whited out by the email page, and only a sliver of tacaurembo between my dark shoulder and the white plastic monitors edge. it was
like the black granite tombs in recoletta yesterday, the dangling kneecaps of one
hesus christo in dagger white glass between the carved cornice and the sky, a plastered tomb where no fresh light teased the dead man, and only plastic flowers rule. I want to get on the horse, and forget everyproblem, and arrive where Im going and have every answer..like a majic train from dr seuss
"what will I sculpt in alifscato"
porcelain armor medalions of rich white chalk, suffered under a gold turniquate. a constricted coral dangle charm. so beautiful, so mine, so something helpless, like she wrote about squeezing the last tear from her childs desperate body. black
bronze...lots of black bronze, sauteed egglplant skin bronze with heart of palm vinagrette. the iron belly dipped from the ankle in enamel and laid at the steps for eva peron

flat pads of clear vellum with white stitch through black rubber rings ,are the foreshadowing gasket seals that seam the outter edge of 3 inflatable donuts. hot latin princesses suffering between layers as high as a building. each ring toss cheerleader pressed tight aagainst one kilo of rusted carbon plate per kilo of hapless bride. floating destiny reigned in by ivory enameled turtle shells with blond polished brass icecube castings laid in a white bumper setting. a coral porcelain ball twisted to radial cloth. black ox military coated twistees forced to tie it down under 1100 degress farenheit. its volcanic shifting that made this world, its 2 thirds the planets surface that hides us in continental corners of dusty terrain. its heat and proximity that burn a lust into me...a window of macys children wondering how santa snow moves. I have to get somewhere where I can purge. I add up all the days ahead of me and I see myself nowhere near a torch soon. I want to go to the place they dismantle ships, where beached hulls fossilize a lifetime of movement and then melt into a chinese caldron by a five buck a day porter. Ive seen naked pictures of cruisers with theyre skirts hiked on beaches near india, bungees for picasso, hammock clips, and some other things for the wooden saddle that will tour urugauys amateur autostrade. Theres no point in being cryptic other than to record the unnatural craving for an eggplant blue resin aftertaste of alloy in my palate, the way the xylene particles in spraypaint have permanently removed buds from my nostril. This is like a productive month I spent in williamsburge painting bunnies when I was 18. I gotta get back with that, a clear unprotected x ray of a date and time etched into a place, like those rubber tapestries in brooklyn...I need a location for this latest transcription of tissue to particle

Im gonna try and make a sentence, that is english, that is true, and that somehow can record the thriving existences of two very different things, native to separate times and parts of the world. one is a carved plastic flowerbed the size of a quarter, that was made to look like ivory, but that is not important. I know its not new but when it was made, and who wore it are details that are foreign to my grades of value. Preference, those sliding shale plates running vertical like oiled and machined conveyer belts locked to my sternum. its dirty on its backside but the physical condition of it is unimortant, I bought it at a fleemarket in buenas aires, from a man wearing glasses that kept it in a steel case with glass shelves, in a little store a block from the iron roofed market in san telmo. I am sure these things are not important, but I will record them like a scientist looking for something, unsure what will be revealed at a later date. Like I said its dirty which means that the indentations are filled with a black oily stain, it has a flat back, and the front is a carved relief of big petaled daisys, there are grooves in its stems, and a hollow belly behind its face, big enough for a string to slide through it like a pendant, but Im pretty sure it had a pin glued to its back likw a brooch. it will at one time be 5000 lbs of welded steel plate pinned to porcelain plates collecting ruin at the ocean floor, dropped from a boat by me, to hide its insubordination, and its vagrant disregard for my need to continue moving, the machiavelan child, the ballgagged women,poor dixie with the wood and hairless monkey puppet at the riverview hotel 1995, "play it again slut" scribbled on a bar napkin shoved up her ass while she crawls along the floor of the tower room.
Ive diverged, this is the problem or the solution, this is not one of the two things. I wasnt expecting dixie, by the steel sunken bed, but it was there, and I have vowed to be honest.
quikly returning to my precipice. my original document. the second item is a piece of imformation that roger, the excavator driver told me through a steel box translater that he held to his trachiotomy hole between tokes of marlboro reds. because this is imformation, all the details of its author and time and place I feel are crucial. I was working for a landscaping company in vermont, I was 20, and drunk all the time, he would pick me up at my house on route 100, in the middle of the granville gulch. "back in the days they built these old barns, theyd line the board forms with newspaper, thats why when you look here" he had to trade fingers holding the voice box against his neck to point with his cigarette finger, at the crumbled concrete sill. I had my hand on a pine six by six, and my head would always be spinning from the jamesons, and the sadness, and stooping made my back burn low. "the ink would bleed....see there I love that shit". I never saw the foundations with old pictures bled into them, I wish I had, I regret it like I regret not working on a ranch in oaxaca. I dont regret much, I dont regret all that hurting Ive done, all those women Ive tortured physically, I dont regret that at all. something about plastic petals transcribed onto carbon plate, resting against a clay bottom. a plastic pin in the pocket of a pair of wool trousers, and maragaretes 17 year old labia punctured by a hundred feet of clothesline, belongs together like happy weebles in a city set, hotwheels in a plastic garage, and whale bones soaking in clorox.
those are the first two items