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A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.
How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.
Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.
The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.
The Empire State Building Is on 63rd Street Ramon wanted to bet Manolo Manolo said impossible The Empire State Building Is on 72nd Street They made a ten dollar bet And borrowed Cheo's car And headed towards Brooklin When they came back Late that night All that Manolo wanted to know Was If Gloria cooked
In a city that now floats in a bottle, In a dimension outside of the census, within walls that were unregistered, there was a painter, Who performed his roll like the Taino cave etchers, the pyramid illustrators of Mexico, the scribblers of hieroglyphs. Vigo painted the hallways of the tenements, While through the air he flew upon a white horse, Or smoked hashish for his desert camel through Moroccan tubes. He painted rocks which were heavy art. Loose bricks were found by landlords containing Antillean pictographs. An artisan of the streets, whose smooth knowledge of many angles Made more lines visible through the old face of the barrio. Against colorful bodega windows, bright candy stores, the epoch of the pachanga Deep in the clubs of night under the world In the submetropolis of need, against walls merely holding up. Once we spoke of the art of survival, of loose lions and hungry tigers, He painted lizard instincts along imaginary river bamboo, Frozen eye sockets containing tar and northern ice. We recognized how we were packed in the chance of numbers, ciphers in the wintry spread, noses popping out of sardine cans, We spoke against the doo-wop of The Paragons Meet the Jesters Till dawn brought a blue light upon roofs—the city skyline bricks steel edges jagged in the wind. In a conference of the stoops he maintained that Dulces Labios Mayaguez was his origin, he spoke of sweet mangoes, plena pulp, Touching trees in honor of the Tainos of his hands stationed deep in his bark, with his left hand where a tattooed cherry blossomed. Vigo made a collaboration between survival and creativity, He stored objects that came with the wind, Had a cellar full of broken gadgets portions that could insert into any malfunction, A bazaar in search of a dictionary of shapes and proportion. He brushed himself like freezer ice Halka brilliantine shine, never alone always with a prehistoric beast. As evidence that I was there on this other planet I still maintain a rock which he painted against the laws of gravity Now a paperweight grounding the poetry of the tropics Against the flight of the east trade winds.
for Joe Bataan
1
some waves
a wave of now
a trombone speaking to you
a piano is trying to break a molecule
is trying to lift the stage into orbit
around the red spotlights
a shadow
the shadows of dancers
dancers they are dancing falling
out that space made for dancing
they should dance
on the tables they should
dance inside of their drinks
they should dance on the
ceiling they should dance/dance
thru universes
leaning-moving
we are traveling
where are we going
if we only knew
with this rhythm with
this banging with fire
with this all this O
my god i wonder where are
we going
sink into a room full of laughter
full of happiness full of life
those dancers
the dancers
are clapping their hands
stomping their feet
hold back them tears
all those sentimental stories
cooked uptown if you can hold it for after
we are going
away-away-away
beyond these wooden tables
beyond these red lights
beyond these rugs & paper
walls beyond way past
i mean way past them clouds
over the buildings over the
rivers over towns over cities
like on rails but faster like
a train but smoother
away past stars
bursting with drums.
2
a sudden misunderstanding
a cloud
full of grayness
a body thru a store window
a hand reaching
into the back
pocket
a scream
a piano is talking to you
thru all this
why don't you answer it.