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