- Vol. 04
- Chapter 11
I’m quite warm in this blanket. I normally use it at night, when I’m sleeping, or to fend off the sun, when it’s sunny, but today it’s not sunny and it’s not cold. Just warm and dark, an evening of heavy heat. Probably it’ll be chilly later, and I’ll be glad of the blanket then, but right now it’s pretty warm. It’s maybe even warmer than the hotel across the street, which is saying something, because that hotel is very popular. There are people drinking on the street just to get out of the crush of the hotel bar, it’s so warm in there.
The hat doesn’t help. They say most of the heat of the body leaves through the top of the head, but with this thing on, nobody’s going anywhere. This hat hates heat getting out. It’s a hot dome under here, that’s for sure.
I would say then, all in all, what with the blanket and the hat, I’m as warm as can be. Put it this way, if I climbed into bed right now – not my bed, which is basically some wood with a sheet over it – but a nice bed, a fancy bed like I bet they have in that hotel across the street, with thick pillows, and woollen blankets, and sheets so silky you’d slide right out again – if I climbed into one of those beds, with a fire in the corner of the room, and with a pair of nice cotton pyjamas on me and, yes, a nice big woman beside me, naked except for something lacy – all of those things, I don’t think I’d be as warm as I am right now.
The only things that are cold, I’d say, are my toes, which keep peeking out like little kids at a window, no matter how often I tuck them under the blanket, and my gun, which never gets warm. The gun lies on my belly like a steel pup and it’s as cold as ice.
If it wasn’t for the gun being so cold, I’d probably fall asleep and not kill the guy when he comes out of the hotel across the street.
Third paycheck enough to buy a gun
a silver horse he kept clicked safe in the glovebox
with strongmints and softpacks.
What thoughts did the horse have
on long drives out of the city, tumbled
onto one of its two symmetrical flanks
gleaming in the no-light from the dash
listening to the blackbird making it through the winter
on the radio, desperation in the rear-view mirror.
Perhaps I, though, was living in Riverton with a wife
and a Peruvian man to clear the blood-red leaves
from the surface of my blue-tiled pool.
There’s only so long a horse will stand
the dark like that, only so far you get
on seventy dollars and the silt of hope.
He fed it apple cores, leftover fries,
stroked the velvet of its head and nose
its two dark, deep, gentle nostrils.
Payment, payback, whatever it is we get in life
might come to us in broad daylight
friendly with a click and warm breath
hard change held to the head or
a rosy spread of leaves on endlessly
It's April, so you can get away with it.Then, workout red: the fashion, and everywhere, the shade of your sombrero, although there is the temptation to spark off your mood: a mood of brooding, of withdrawal, of lone warrior. Who broke your heart and left you in the desert? We don't know, and being too afraid to ask, can only guess. Are your bare cheekbones defiant, refusing to hide a shame, or do you just want the world to know how much you hurt?
I try to hide my eyes, to see but not be seen, to watch steadfastly. Nothing escapes me so I am dangerous with a quiet power that others consider as strange and would covet if they understood. As it is, they suspect me and they stand back, afraid of my body that rots with pox. At least, that's the story, and it protects me. At night in their cups, they forget me and speak loose words. I hover, between the cacti, wrapped tight against spikes and cold winds in rough, red wool. I remember everything and clutch my knife, my Mexican blade stained with tongue's blood, ripped from the honest ox for my sour supper. Read more >
Praying to the newspaper Sinking in, drinking other people's lives Death on every page, rage My time for me not thee Vicariously real living life After working all week With black ink on my pinks And the Greatful Dead in my head Quick trip to the travel section Leave the Markets Digest for another day While the hours slip away.
Knees buckled, he crouches shrouded in blood-red blanket. Body hidden, pain smothered, wrapped in coarse threads. Soul-stripped eyes glaze sorrow. He is there, but not here. Worry gnaws his bones, drains strength from numb limbs like embers smouldering to white heat. Hope wisps drift away like bits of ash in cold barren winds of despair.
I hide I peep The cold and the heat Unbearable though it might be It's become a part of me.
Can you see the thorns? Can you see where I crouch? Do you know the pain I feel? Or the thousand doubts
My blanket, may as well be bright My feet remain exposed The cover is never complete Like most of everything in life It's full of hunger and strife
To those behind me, I would like you to know too I hide I peep And so do you.
He hides from the world, protecting himself from the scalding notes of the sun. He will be home soon, a spackle of stars outside the scorched window, and you will wrap him in the dim light of your fingertips.
You uncloak his misery, lift his veil of fire and hide it on a shelf out of reach. His face is known only to you, weeping and stripped bare. Your voice is a whisper only he can hear and hold tightly to quell the calamity in his chest.
His head rests quietly in your hands, cradled in the few still hours of darkness. You drink the nectar of each other’s silence, until he rises and leaves again, wrapped in a cloth of despair and secrets.
I've seen those hats before, on the heads and in the hands of tourists returning from Spain. They'll never be worn back home, not practical, you see. They look practical here, though on this man's head. He's no tourist. He's at home. I've seen the cactus plants before, also. An unwanted export from Mexico invading the wild arid places. They're at home here too, with this man who will put on his gloves while he takes off the vicious skins to eat the fruit beneath and take refreshment in the hot sun of the day, and sustenance as he wraps up ready for the cold Mexican night.
On a cold night like tonight my sombrero fits my mood— my red wrap-around hides my grimace.
I sit below the pampas freezing, huddled, teeth chattering.
In South America there is no word for the homeless.
We live half inside half out— residents of the desert.
We are born to hunt with horses, live and breathe the night— every little mosquito bite
Brightens the smile of my wild grin.
A few things are more beautiful than rain drops under the street light
but with a roof on top not leaking
uncertainty, sometimes can wrap around you like a lover leaving warmth behind and bones rattle
a strange kind of a company
alone, but not alone like, nude in the wilderness under the stars breeze blowing skin hair standing on edge and howl of wolves nearby like, stabbed by the lover loving them still,
there are no simple answers
I'm flipping freezing. I look like I'm hot, wrapped up to hold in my body temperature and keep out the heat, but I'm not. I'm flipping freezing. See my toes? My poor toes? They're freezing too. Come to Margate, they said. It'll be warm, they said. It's not. I wore sandals. I wrapped my picnic blanket around me; if you look closely you can see some tuna mayonnaise left over from our picnic. I'm flipping freezing. The bloody weatherman got it wrong again. And I've got the sniffles.
Unhurried, the evening exhales.
Cool breath extinguishing light, subduing hues to make night.
Prickly pears dim their shine and darken their juice. Ruby fruits wait in shade like puckered lips.
Wife sinks, knees tucked, crouches weary, arms heavy. Chin dips, skin raw, tear trails puckered, eyes sore.
She slips into an empty calm. The breezeblocks are warm.
And hunched near, a stout package of Mexican is cached in a target as red as his hot blood. His face is a polished coffee bean, his nose chiselled and planed by ancestry. They hate him for it.
His hat catches rain and keeps the blaze at bay; it looks like brown paper or dry bread. Read more >
The cold paints a portrait Your portrait crafted in a coat Of paint, snuggled But you are wide awake Arrogantly defying the weather You are man without attire You cover to hide You peel skin and bones You are man hiding Escaping into the freezing zone But you want to be seen To be discovered A standing portrait Hung in a room with chandeliers.
Nobody ever comments on my footwear. I suppose it’s the vibrant red of the blanket that does it. The kind of blanket used by paramedics in a war zone. Then again, with the single black stripe, I’ve been told it could be prized as a minimalist throw.
Then there’s the hat. I could keep a herd of bees in this hat and no one would know but me. Except for the buzzing of course.
But, funny thing, no one remarks on my shoes. I can see them becoming all the rage – a simple leather thong pegged between my big and first toe.
If it rains – when it rains – I can just slop through the mud and they dry very quickly. I’ve never suffered from athlete's foot.
So…just sitting here. Tucked up under the prickly pear – which tones with my blanket perfectly by the way.
Maybe the stripe should have been green.
And it is the time – the last of my hours that makes me submerged in all the reds and blues and greens of my entity. I held the world as a hat upon my head: surrounded myself in it like a blanket on a winter night – when it was bombing hard Or when it fell like a death upon the 'child' and still I could not absorb it thoroughly; Even though they say they are the 'Lord's Messengers' and working for Him.
It was a maze of intricate flowers and thorns, a dazzling pattern of hues and checks, and a fine line of oozing blood that ran through my fellow beings trapped by them – When I was trying hard to cover 'me' in this red blanket: as if I was stained from the blood of all those murdered and killed and thrown upon on the shore and elsewhere: dead or migrating. But in the end, nothing matters: Neither cold nor hot, Not even the blanket or the hat above my head, It is the life that I survived And will survive through eternity Like those leaves and flowers and hazy morning sunshine. It is 'I' and the 'SURVIVAL' that leads me to save myself and my fellow beings: From these deadly Lord's Messengers.
Consider ancestors. Their keeping warm. Their rasping accents thick with foreign time. Their disapproval of your attitude. Their dying ways of worship, and of trade.
Consider colours. How, though colours fade, A bright serape stuns the mind’s arcade: It’s there you keep your father’s father’s cloak. A red shawl, as it happens, ribboned black.
Consider him. Your silent, side-eyed guest. An implication blazing. Same-skinned ghost, Who merely sneers. Or shields his sadness. Hands That clench. He’s here, where many times he hunched,
Hunkering down, in a terse truce with time. Beside a fire. Drink deep. Consider him.
The mouth is hidden Speech blanketed by the wool of night Lips sealed, a sheeted gag Against the usual rantings and obscenities And I am thankful for his silence
Neighbours pass us, acknowledge me Not him, pretend not to see the man Who was once a man His presence now a red rag To the bull of propriety
And we chat about this and that Over the head of the man out of his head Whose glance slinks along the sidewalk To the bars and their promise Of mindless oblivion
Unsteadily he rises, Staggers down the street Dragging me with him Whilst in the shadows my mother watches As I follow in my father’s footsteps
I will keep your baby safe beneath my red cloak Go! Fear not! The day is young, the journey long The path rugged beside the precipitous drop Be careful daughter, watch for thieves at the pass They will rob you of your purpose, steal your purse
Ha! I wish that I were there to see their faces first I that would spit phlegm between their evil eyes Bray like a burro angry at the first hint of dawn Shriek like the condors with deathly angels’ wings To meet me would be as if the gods had woken
But alas! These gnarled and godforsaken knees A prisoner of me make, no youthly vigour is left To scale the shadowy peaks of Sierra Madre del Sur To look out on the deep blue yonder that stretches As far as my watery, world-weary, eyes would see
Quick girl! The time of your child has nearly passed Her spirit has ventured into the vulture’s domain She needs the hand and sacred words of the priest To carry her where we will one day rest our heads And embrace eternity in the arms of our ancestors
You were the youngest, a fighter born and bred ‘El niño fuerte’ we called you, the strong child Unlike this poor thing I shelter beneath my cloak As dead as a dog in the gutter, as cold as winter Hurry! I wait my lifetime beside this prickly pearRead more >
Wrapped in a red thought, underneath a brown thought weighing on my head with a tropical siesta; drowsy in the stillness that clings to my knees like strangers praying in a strange land; fighting sleep, not wanting to let my guard down: There's always someone waiting to slip a knife between your ribs, or lock you into a stinking van full of migrating hallucinations stoked in Hell's inferno.
Wrapped in a red thought, underneath a brown thought blood flowing under my Mexican skin— where it belongs!I can't let them do it! If they build a wall around me while I sleep, who knows if I'll return to a world where there are no boundaries— where I'm a man, not a machine? Read more >
A shot like a backfiring car. I lay full length on the border. Still as midday sun.
Folk think me dead. So fire back. I get up. Skitter like a lizard.
Now sit here, wrapped in this blood serape eyes flit side to side as bullets zip by.
Not a time for dance so shakers are sleeved above me. Soon victory will give my life back like clarity.
I crouch, prickly pear covering my back. I can't keep running; a last stand against their guns is better than the grip of the hangman's noose.
It'll take a while for the gang to find me in this cemetery on the border with Mexico. I'll be ready for them, pistol pouched beneath the poncho. I will die with my boots on.
She’s waiting on the Hill Road for the construction worker on the short-term contract, his sweet talk guile.
Her perfect English’s only got her so far. These days it’s about foraging for firewood wielding that axe, being sister-mother to that boy, when all he wants to do is drum.
Lake Malawi’s wink, a planet’s orbit away, holds a promise, salvation or grief, its shoreline infested by more men in hyena skins.
Best, dear child, to have never been so intelligent, better to have been second born.
Left out from the last departing train Wet ground offers no shelter Ragged threadbare hat and Reliable but old blanket Pulled up to shoulders The only option is to await rescue Shivering underneath the skin prunes The reality of time slipping As nobody appears and the Waters continue to rise with The steady rainfall Counting minutes hours days Wasted as supplies dwindle Passersby disappear down The path until it too vanishes Into puddle stream river Leafy vines provide no shelter But merely funnel water over head Down on all sides as the river Ascends the hill drawing ever closer No boat truck helicopter in sight Soon all options to flee Evaporate but attempts to Escape to higher ground risk traps Staying put in hope of being found Seems the only option to bundle up Save energy to watch for whatever Comes up next water or human
I haven’t been to New York City since the terrorist attacks on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. Now I’m returning with my husband for the first time, for a day of sightseeing and evening dinner. I don’t know what made me finally have the courage. Maybe it’s just time to stop being afraid.
It’s been so long since I’ve taken the railroad into the city and my stomach churns. The sun is beating on my face and I want to get off at the next stop and go home. I don’t tell my husband and bear with it.
Finally, we reach Penn Station. It’s how I remember it, except, more policemen are on patrol. I try not to look at them and hold my husband’s hand while waiting in line to purchase our Metro- Card for the subway.
“Look, Hon, there’s a homeless man in the corner.” Something about this man catches my attention. I notice something next to him and must see what it is, so I leave the line.
“Where are you going?”
“Just get the MetroCard,” I say while my husband leaves the line and follows me.
“I told you to get the MetroCard.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
I’m standing face-to-face with this man and my husband is so close to me; I feel his breath on my neck.
The man has a picture of a woman and two small boys next to him. The woman is beautiful. Her golden blond hair is hanging over her shoulders and her eyes are hazel. The boys are also blond and smiling, holding hands. Identical twins.Read more >
In front of a tree green sat a man wrapped in a blanket all-vermillion He also wore a hat but his feet were exposed to the mid-season's unpredictable cold breeze
"Oh, Sir, your feet will catch cold!" I exclaimed. "Gentle lady," he said. "Thanks for the concern but my feet in extreme climates will no longer suffer The only shoes I had, I left them on the lamenting river Over there daily strolls a beggar with blistered feet and red eyes His pain I couldn't see So I gave him my shoes selflessly. On my way home I met the good fairy she granted me a boon of travelling miles bare foot on snowy paths or amidst hot flames and never feeling annoyed as my feet in whatever circumstances will maintain normal body temperatureRead more >
Traces of red cling to twilight and plump peyote cactus fruit. He is motionless, the air under the sarape rojo heavy with sweat and spice trapped with his memories. The ancient vaquero is concealed by his sombrero that once swiped flies, gave shade on breathless days when no cloud smudged the sky. Woven deep into the hat’s straw and the threads of the sarape rojo are the words he whispered every day to his mustang, a red bay, another trace clinging to his twilight.
Why do you stand before me, with your paper and colours? You do not bring food, you do not bring drink, you do not bring warmth – you come with your curious eyes – your intent – to capture my pain, my loss, my red threadbare blanket, on that paper – paint the cracks on my face so you can win a name, claim a talent and become a wonder.
You will not pass as others before you? You will not snap pictures accompanied with ohs and ahs? No, you will linger like the flies on my sole, won't you, and suck the moisture of my spirit into that piece of paper. You will fix the memory of a broken me to a glass frame and no matter the size of my casket, the depth of my pocket, the strength of my song, that picture of me – the giant sombrero shading my suspicious eyes, the red blanket shrouding my spindly frame and my dusty toes peeking at the world will endure.
Please do not forget my wife – her nutty brown skin – the sheen in her hair, the beads on her neck, the soft smile on her lips. Please do not forget to tell them, your people in their ease, that i had no plate before me – I begged no one. Please do not forget to paint that I too was watching the world just like you.
his eyes are the only points of alive
red: bordered black wrapped
in creases over stifled stitched lips
a not quite face partial bronze faceted/butchered feet
fixed to wood crack jointed identity flensed
he is a folk device – anarchy
or revolution painted in plain sight placed specifically
over foliage greens, a woman at the market, aRead more >
I can breath a sigh of relief sitting wrapped in this blanket like a precious present. I am so lucky to be still warm in the upcoming storm.
I can still see their lifeless bodies through my dried up eyes, their spirits crying out in anguish. The unbearable pain that they were served was so undeserved. But this is our traditional heritage, like a voyage each one in our culture must undertake. All for adulthood's sake. Becoming a "madoda", a Xhosa male adult, decreed by revered "ancestors", must be done during a ceremony at the appointed time. But this is no coming of age bliss. They are considered our lifelong investors. Passing on traditions from generation to generation.
The beginning of a new life was going to greet us at home with welcoming arms. The boys who had evolved into adults were going to be celebrated. But the expected praises that should have adorned us were abruptly muted. The initiation had not gone as planned.
A quick-buck scam turned into a deadly affair as circumcisions were done without proper care. Police officers and medical rescue teams came onto the scene – a picture seen more often now. Here amongst the South African bushes, surrounded by brush, trees and cactus, the Initiation Schools springing up overnight were now illegal practices.
The other boys were also wrapped in blankets. But they were not going home. They were already home.
Alberto Garduño, a Mexican artist, died in 1948. Compañero in the monumental glorification of the civil war that tore through Mexico earlier that same century, Garduño rides a white stallion alongside others — Rivera, Orozco, Siqueiros — whose monuments stamp walls with symbols of collective ghosts, shared hauntings. His oil paintings hang in museums. The nation’s history, the artist’s canvas. The images stand witness on and in public buildings. In paint and brushstroke, they chant, “Viva la Revolución Mexicana.” Flash point for so many other revoluciones to come.
Setting: the iconic desert. A background drenched in chlorophyll. A vegetable palette with darkening borders. In shades of green, the human eye discerns hues more varied, diverse, nuanced, and abundant than in any other slice of the color spectrum — an adaptation with its own adaptability: an advantage for the hunter, a defence against predators. Green is the color of my true love’s eyes. Lorca’s green, a gypsy green, verde que te quiero verde. The sap runs over the greening world.
Foreground, the sole figure of un muchacho sits bundled in arms and knees drawn close under a wide-brimmed woven hat that shields him from a too-harsh sun. His back to the green forest of nopales. Rural Mexico, los ranchos, el desierto, las montañas. Already, always nostalgic. The cactus blushes its reddening fruit, la tuna, the prickly pear, to shame the desert. In its sweet, seedy pulp, the blood-red fruit hoards summer rains from parched dusty earth. Garduño’s warrior sits, his back to a fibrous green wall that is la tierra for which, in which, which he fights. Is it a respite from battle or the defeat by betrayals or a moment captured in pigment of campesino life? The artist dips the figure in earth tones of umber, bares his eyes and toes, swaddles him in a blanket dyed bright crimson, a bursting wound that marks the target for a bullet fired many years ago.
The paddles of the prickly pear are feet. The toes of the dead point to heaven. No
old woman wove his red serape. No old wife, wrinkled as his toes, calls him sweet.
Death is a black dog, a cold cigarette. Death's long shadow leans against the wall. When
will it come creeping up behind him? When will it wrap bony hands around his throat?
life's a bitch when an alien looks at you over the left shoulder one of those never happened befores where the right shoulder voice says out loud you are hallucinating – have swallowed the worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle – the alien stays in the shadows so that is good though it looks kind of ugly – could this be a bad thing – can see all these ideas string well together yet could change so easily like the weather forecast or what the sun would be like without a sombrero – maybe you're about to find out – the right shoulder says to be careful what you wish for – your literary kind of a mind clocks this cliché for what it is – a cliché that makes little demand on your intellect that savours a phrase or two of Wittgenstein who asserts: "the limits of my language mean the limits of my world" – now this could get ugly though some good could come of it – maybe ask the alien about the limits of his world – you feel bad about where this might go – he's still a strange fellow - fellow what? – this could really test the limits if it's a lady alien or even a hermaphrodite – you stay quite still inside your red blanket comfort zone – order another tequila for courage then soon will ask alien about taking a drink too – hasta la vista
You're looking at me My eyes turn away, Soul stares back at you. You're mocking my words. My ears hear the wind; My heart hears your taunts. Sombrero gathering dust, It gathers dust all day. I tip it to the ground And shake the dust away, Shake the dust away, Gotta shake the dust away. You open your food. I smell only sweat. My stomach rumbles. Brag about your pool When I need a bath. I have no pillow. Sombrero gathering dust, It gathers dust all day. I tip it to the ground And shake the dust away, Shake the dust away, Gotta shake the dust away. Some day they won't stare. Their tongues will not mock. They'll shake dust away. Sombrero gathering dust, It gathers dust all day. Read more >
unfazed by passing clouds or thorns that drape all wild roses
– the heart is a rose with its fair share of thorns –
but from the roses as well as the heart we shall take the warmth
from the weave, the blood that threads us binding us to our living
(Where do they go – the curtaining trees that surround us on our solitary walk?
When we walk next to one another, they leave us).
Beneath prickly pears in this town of brujas A tight fistful of herbs clutched close to my heart My blanket’s crimson protects me from curses A hat shields me from sun and the evil eye
A tight fistful of herbs clutched close to my heart Feet plugged into the hot breath of the earth A hat shields me from sun and the evil eye Under curds of cloud, colour of nausea
Feet plugged into the hot breath of the earth Keyed in silence, prayer in bottle Under curds of cloud, colour of nausea Rosemary and basil sweeten the heat
Keyed in silence, prayer in a bottle My blanket’s crimson protects me from curses Rosemary and basil sweeten the heat Beneath prickly pears in this town of brujas
Wrapped in wrath he sat Burning at low flame.
Batting eyelashes Like wings, like waving banners.
Crouching under the yoke can be Crouching before the jump:
A spring storing rage, A cactus storing water,
Growing spines as spears, And the sweetest fruit, scarlet like
Quetzal, creature of the sky, Batting his wings. The leaves of
A cactus growing buds, Delicate like freedom.
Thrown aside Left out Cowering under wool blankets Sewn by tired hands Waiting on the streets Eyes hidden Feet weary from traveling Just to find a place he belongs In a world that says he doesn't belong Torn between a life he dreams of living And a tall stone wall.
In the cold shade of Sabancaya serape-wrapped in our old beliefs we wait for the fires of the volcano to warm and wake us from our sleep.
Yesterday is our fate tomorrow just another day in the pyroclastic flow of time as we huddle in our wooden graves.
Sometimes, much depends on what we do with what’s left behind.
There was a late winter afternoon thinking of which the colour red runs a riot in my mind. The last holiday to the quaintest land where men sit in the shade of the cactus and the women wait by the open door. You winked at me and pulled my hand and we laughed down the long lane lit by the long shadows of the dusk. And then, returning, a routine visit to the doc’s for a simple dull pain…
Medical reports are mysterious documents, deceptive to the dot.
Now colours are in the things that I touch, things that need keeping with a little care; and I wonder how different is my wait than the women we hardly noticed them then, there.
Yes, much depends on what we do with what’s left behind though the red is much faded today and the late afternoon sun not so kind.
We’ve had a row, Gabriela and me. She’s waiting for me to apologise, but the way she waits is to fill the space between us with talk.
See? That’s her making hot chocolate, behind me. We always drink hot chocolate at night. She’s making it with cinnamon, my favourite. She’s trying to tempt me. But if I say a word I’ll be halfway to saying I’m sorry. And I don’t feel like saying I’m sorry.
She says, ‘It’s going to happen tonight.’
I don’t say a word.
She says, ‘They’re so brave, don’t you think? Flowering just for a day.’
I refuse to think about what she means.
She says, ‘Do you remember last year? When we danced under them?’
I remember. Very well. But I’m not about to say so. We watched the cactus bloom in the dark as we made love. In the morning we danced under the flowers because Gabriela said we had to show them we knew they were going to die.
She says, ‘You were my hero. You never stopped.’
I look sideways and stifle a laugh. I don’t know if she means I never stopped making love or I never stopped dancing. (Both are true.)
And then the space between us fills with the fragrant scent of the cactus flowers as they open and my mind fills with memories and I can’t help myself.
I turn to Gabriela and even though I don’t apologise I say, ‘La vida es breve.’ Which comes to the same thing.
“Leave the land, glory awaits!” they said, “And then freedom will cloak you in red.” The city is where your ambition will spread “Leave the land, glory awaits!” they said. The struggle will only be in your head As you discover you do not need bread. “Leave the land, glory awaits!” they said, “And then freedom will cloak you in red.”
The colour of blood, a flood of metallic energy.
The pillar box of anger, dagger words angled to hurt.
The splatter of night-time thrills, spills of lacy teasers, lipstick smudges.
The bright, notice me flag, rag to the bull syndrome.
The power of the go-getter, manipulator and me first.
The two tribes of war sure of their right, their cause.
The hot-head, the passionate, the car-crash of all-consuming red mist.
Splash wall swatches in shades of raid red to crimson and raspberry.
Now give yourself up to the fiery heat, sunset sweet, sky-falling ah’s.
How dare we plan for tomorrow, How arrogant is man?
Do we fear death too less? Or we love life too little? Or do you sometimes think too that we fear life so we let it do what it can.
Maybe it's just me, but the fear is red, Like my shawl, it drapes me twice Sometimes, it feels so comfortable and warm, and sometimes, like a bed of ice
Sometimes, I don’t have to show you much to see through you from these eyes
There is a world underneath my red shawl and a world outside.
From a laboured input to a polished product Stitched with love, one at a time Woven with seams of laughter and dreams And finally imbued with a glossy hue From the snug bed to the spectacular wallhangings Clustered together with similar others They offer myriad views, each with unique flannel patterns Every fold, each little block has a story to tell As memories flow and the folds entwine, It becomes a work of art, that only grows more precious with the bounty of years.
That's right. In the heat of the night mas o menos you with your gold teeth in your pocket this Mezcal drink stinking on your hot breath you come back and kick me for Tamales waking me from sleep foot in my bony hip, hips that carried your sons, angry warrior.
There is earth-taste in my mouth from where you kissed me but like with Mezcal you have harvested me; cut off my roots and leaves to reveal my heart and then have had it cooked in a pit oven for three days – all smoky – until I am smashed with red banana pineapple and sugar; sweetness all over again. I love love love you for that.Read more >
It was May 1972. When my husband and I shared that we were driving from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Chihuahua City, Mexico, the reaction of well-meaning friends, family and casual acquaintances surprised us. Some warned of the many dangers of Mexican roads — armed bandits, potholes, stray animals across the highway and other hazards. Others suggested we fly to Chihuahua and asked why we don’t. My clichéd response: “It’s a guy thing.”
Like many other history buffs before us, we’d been drawn by the idea of a road trip adventure south of the border to visit the museum of Mexican Revolutionary Francisco “Pancho” Villa. On a chilly spring morning, with a killer sunrise over the Sandia Mountains, and little traffic on the road, we drove from Albuquerque to El Paso, Texas, a border city. We crossed the border and cleared customs in Juarez, Mexico, and drove south to Chihuahua City.
Driving through the Chihuahuan Desert early spring was a feast to the eyes — stunningly beautiful jagged mountain peaks piercing the blue sky with moving clouds and a sea of vibrant colors splashed across the endless desert landscape. It was mesmerizing!
We did not encounter gun-toting bandits. But dodging potholes in the Mexican roads was a challenge that kept us driving at a slower speed. Cowboys and young boys kept a watchful eye on animals grazing along the side of the road, so no stray livestock running in front of the car.
After a scenic 8-hour drive, we arrived at the Mexican Revolutionary Francisco “Pancho” Villa’s residence known as “Quinta Luz” in honor of his wife, Señora Doña María Luz Corral de Villa, and now also the Francisco Villa Museum.Read more >
He found himself hurtling over a red blanket. He was escaping from them: the bawling child, the brooding youth, the dying man and the lost soul. He looked around. It was chaos. Everyone was wailing. Everyone was screaming. Everyone was shivering. All of a sudden, he was thrown under the starry sky. He was thrown to feel the winter. He was left alone.
He looked around to see the light of love. He felt the wintry night. He felt the stones around. He felt the earth beneath. He felt the winds blowing. He was controlled. He was conquered. He had bounded feelings. Gradually, he realized his heart was opening. He was no more the flame that failed to glow. He began spluttering. He wanted to be the light. He felt everything around him merged with him. He felt his heart glowing. He felt the heat flowing. He searched for brightness. His red blankets unravelled a beautiful soul. It was strong. It was pure. It was blissful. He transformed heat to love. He let all the love flow. He let all the love, flow out of him. He let all the love flow to the world. The love flowed. He became brighter. He became lovelier. He was no more the flame that failed to glow.
He let the words gush in ecstasy. He watched the sun creating pattern of joy. He saw the stars twinkling the bliss. He saw the sea engulfing the shore to show love. He saw the flowers bloom in bliss. He saw the bees sing in euphoria. He saw breeze dance to the song of joy. He saw everything. He felt everything. His red blankets unraveled a beautiful soul.
I watch. I see all the people passing by. I am here sunrise to three, everyday. I guess they don’t look for me. Just another dark-skinned, sat about. I wonder if anyone notices me, wonders about what I am thinking?
I glance around. Not so many folk here today. Saving themselves for the morrow, market day. I guess they’ll only come out for essentials on a Tuesday. Those that do pass by, do they notice me at all? I don’t think I am so inconspicuous, dressed as I am, but maybe my dress is as they expect.
What would happen if I were to change my garb? Stand in a provocative manner? Would they react differently? Would they notice me at all? I shall try it someday. But not now. I have work to do presently.
When I leave I will walk the dusty path back up the hill, around the big rock to my homestead. After siesta in the freshly laundered sheets, the second part of my day begins.
I take out my laptop and I write. I write all the stories I have seen today, all the stories I haven’t, and all the stories I’d like to see. The story about Maria Consuela and her top marks in science this week; about Conchita and Nancy setting up the new business, inspite of the lack of support from Manuel Aldogan. I write about the new enterprise which reduces the fuel needed to power the cooking stoves. About the new irrigation ideas that are being talked about in the market, but not in the press.
I write my stories and I store them up. At the end of this month I will publish them all. They will be spread across the nation. These women will get their recognition. I am known, elsewhere. Once I have succeeded in this endeavour, maybe I will change my garb. Until then, the man in the red blanket gets all the attention, and I lean on the wall and take note.
The man appeared suddenly one night under cover of darkness. He moved stealthily like a cat marking its prey, all tiptoes and furtive glances, a swish of his crimson blanket. No-one knew anything about him, not his name, nor where he had come from. Some people called him Pepe, others Jorge. I liked to think of him as Miguel; whatever his name, the man was a mystery. You see, he only appeared at night; in the daytime he was nowhere to be seen which kept people guessing, kept them watching, expectant for his return. I often wondered what he concealed beneath his blanket; it was bright pomegranate, the colour of a setting sun, with three severe lines at the edge, and it swamped his slight frame. I figured it acted like a cocoon, keeping him safe and protected from the strangers who frequently walked past.
A few times I looked out over the balcony, peering on to the dusty street below and sure enough, Miguel would be there wrapped in his ruby blanket, a blood stain in this small village. Sitting there like that he looked so insignificant, a vibrant part of the scenery people often took for granted, and yet, I knew this man was different. A sudden urge would seize me to call out, wave, and ask him to join me. He seemed like the type of man who had a few colourful stories to tell – he was a watcher, an observer of human nature, a man who waited before he struck.
I soon learned Miguel had refused the kindness of Mr Sanchez – the nicest man in the village who would have given shelter to a liar and pickpocket, and always averted his eyes when the young ladies walked by in their long colourful skirts and suggestive Bardot tops. After a while, I gave up trying to figure him out. Instead of smiling, he would scowl and turn away; if anyone offered him a helping hand, he would curse them under his breath. Read more >
They say we only use 10% of our brain’s function, that mostly grey and white matter that somehow, like a flat screen TV when supplied with electricity, powers up and allows for viewing pictures of the world, and to make sense of experiences good or bad.
I’m sure we all use much more than 10%, in some people, parts of the mind lie dormant, in others, it glows with an intensity resulting in either brilliance or madness or both. I wonder what would result if we used 100% of our brain’s function?
Would we be able to smell colours, taste sounds, touch words and see time, or perhaps like a device overloaded with too many apps it would become slow and eventually shut down.
each day I sit here I watch my hat tipped my eyes guarded my lips twitching unseen
each day I sit here I dream my heart racing my head awash with wild thoughts untamed
each day I sit here I yearn my love real my desire true my passion hot within my loins unfulfilled
each day I sit here loving you from a distance hidden behind this cloak of desire unrepentant
I wear a sombrero to carry the dew Which I use to relieve my parched lips My scarlet bright blanket was weaved from the few Skinny bighorn that we had to clip.
That’s the story I tell when odd tourists pause To take idiot pictures in groups And offer me paper to ‘promote my cause’ Which in heaven they’ll doubtless recoup.
I sneer at their charity, turn a blind eye As the next gust or thief gets it gone And sit here in comfort, just waiting to die, Passing the time by humming our song.
Manuel sat with his eyes carefully monitoring his surroundings. Noon came just in time arriving before the second batch of shopkeepers pooled into a single file line. They overstock their booths, marketing to con-men and con-women from various parts of the world. He sits. He stares. He keeps his things close. He doesn't trust tourists. He has his reasons.
A shopkeeper notices his glare. He questions him in the frozen position--bent on wanting to learn more. Manuel closes in and says, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, my friend." The shopkeeper turned to leave, feeling ridiculed without an invitation. Read more >
You want a wall? we will build a wall of prickly pear
to keep you out we will hunker low in our landscape
dry river beds will spring to life in a moment
under the right conditions, our land is ripe for spring
growth, red earth coats the ancient shoulders of our mothers
and together we daughters are bound in blood, we raise
voices, concrete cannot contain song that will be free.
We won't know the reason for the desire
I can't say how it found me waiting for it
who made its rash cover my face in sores
lifted me into the bedlam of its laugh
thrashing me through the square singing my feet into the storm
I was going to throttle Henry Hubbard I decided grimly as the rain swirled around me.
“It’s a sure thing Ed!” he had infused keenly the night before in the Watch Office, chucking his fourth dart into Donald Quimby’s campaign poster for student council election.
Like a gold carat fool I’d agreed, after all a useable lead on where the many fireworks been sold on academy grounds, actually came from was a blessing.
Of course I hadn’t checked the local weather, so here I stood under a blue brolly watching the flat opposite me and the world going by.
There sat in the doorway a prune-skinned man draped in a red blanket with a wide-brimmed straw hat. His brown eyes were squinted as he observed the nearly drowned street.
A soaked-through fox appeared at my feet, its doleful emerald eyes widening as it looked up at me.
“C’mon Reynard join me, eh?” I asked.
If foxes could smile, ‘Reynard’ was positively beaming as he curled at my feet, as the clouds began to part like the Red Sea.
I bought a shield I thought it’ll allow me rest in peace.
The noise in and out – ‘Danger, run, lost… found, killed, dead!’ – kept me awake seeking a way or, a cover.        I bought a shield…
The world on the wheel running callously: a little one busy licking candy, a beauty twirling a covetous dandy. Industrious sellers with their hands full, hot and fresh food for the soul. You also have the best made of wool.        I bought a shield…Read more >
My spot picked out by prickly pear cactus a point of night edged hard by the Pampas a separate patch from both jaguars, spiders in their human form; of land rat.
I am aware the green jaws of my dreams like a woman’s remorseless work of hands grind, pummel and knead my pulp into squash much the same red as this fresh new blanket
swaddling me, shoulders to sandaled toes and is black, black as blood in the moonlight: unless I am already asleep, easy a tad watchful, waiting for reckless night.
To whom this glory goes of restful impersonation? My eyes, anti-rose, a calligraphy of anger’s verbose prose.
Aslant visual mood, no infers needed.
My need is to engage again with night’s marriage toward moon’s varied phrases phased inversion the heal-need language impulse hears when the eyes’ obesity screams itself into fathom