Angel In Waiting

In the shade we sat upon the steps of the tomb of the family Prat.

“You know nothing about me,” I said.

“I know a lot about you.”

“How so? Did you google me?”

“No.”

“Then you know nothing about me.”

“I know you from your words.”

“From your first message I felt as if you were courting me.”

“I am.”

He pierced me with his gaze as if he might part the veils and strip me of defenses: my nervous laughter; rapid-fire questions to keep him talking. Perhaps the cousins to the words that brought us together could explain why and predict the future. But the air filled with incomplete thoughts, half-formed sentences, jagged phrasing softened by tender possibility. No safety in answers.

We are travelers, walking among the dead, seeking companionship, collaboration for a profound inner journey however brief. We are searching for something to stop us from becoming ashes to dust from the inside out before our time.

Ghost Poet

Wanted. Apply within without reservation. Be willing to travel into the depths of another without a map. Arrive armed only with a compass that points true.

“Who are you?”

“I am the man who wants to be with you.”

He lay his back down on the cool marble, head at my feet, and shifted his gazed toward the sky between the sepulchral structures.

I suppressed the desire to lean over and place my mouth upon his.

Listen to them all
don’t believe any of them

Then, when you’re full
and you have digested it
eliminated the trash
weighed the contradictions
tested the theories
decide for yourself

Better yet
stay with the question

Tango
like Love
and God
should remain a mystery.

Tango doesn’t care
if you’re old, frail, poor
short, fat or thin
it grabs you hard
and pulls you in

Tango doesn’t care
if you’ve made a vow
to another
thus negating its power
defiance doesn’t go unpunished

Tango lives by its own set of rules
Its hold on you is unforgivably cruel

Tango crawls up inside you
a fix looking for a junkie
claws and clings to your back
like a parasitic monkey

It waits for the wrong moment
to take you under its spell
renders you incapable
of anything rational

Dress split high, sexy heels
pin-striped suit with pleated pants
you’ve spent time and money
preparing for the dance

But it leaves you naked
vulnerable on the floor
like so many bodies scattered
all the years before

You glide on the surface
of its melancholic waves
and in an unsuspecting instant
the beat of its undertow
slams you down on the shore

You rise, shake yourself off
temporarily sated
begging for more
sweaty and thirsty
back to the floor

But not before its sordid history
flashes before your eyes
every note, step and beat
making itself part of your story

For a split second
everything
and nothing
makes perfect sense

We’re all the the same
underneath the glitter
naked and yearning
Tango takes control of you
with every step you’re learning

Tango makes its mark on you
a tattoo, a love bite
the kiss you long for
with the whole of your life

Tango stops short of nothing less
than its ultimate goal
It shakes up your life
and possesses your soul.

But I can’t read Lorca, nor Neruda
behind the wall of bodies
making their way to and fro
And, I don’t need to read it
I see it everywhere I go

I see poetry in the sidewalk blocks
cracked and broken
uneven and heaving

Hear it in narrow cobblestone streets
echoing horses’ hooves and wooden carts

Cartoneros come into the city nightly
to make a meager living
from the day’s accumulated garbage
Women breaking open bags
searching for discarded treasures
their babies playing in the midst

There is repetition in mattresses lined up side by side
under the bridge where people make their home

I hear poetry in the cacophony produced
by amateur musicians attempting to direct traffic
with an atonal instrument
trapped behind a steering wheel
weaving in and out, crossing lines and taking chances
on the widest avenue in the world

There is poetry in the marching throng
and clanging of pots
against the raising of taxes
the random unabashed raising of voices in song
in apartments, in the subway and in the streets

There is poetry in the movement of a skirt
on legs between legs
to timeless melancholic strains
of tango music in the dance halls
and the movement in and out of pedestrian traffic
to the nuevo version blaring from narrow shops.

And the sweetest love song of all
is in the way that friends
and strangers alike
greet each other with a kiss on the cheek
and squeeze themselves heart to heart
into an already overcrowded subway

There is poetry in the urgency to embrace
all the pleasures of life
and a cry of anguish
or silent acceptance
of its pain
all on display

These expressions are caught
by pen and brush
captured by lens and word
Everywhere, everyday
this poetry is seen and heard

Without this, there is no city
Without this city there is no poetry

No hay ciudad sin poesía
No hay poesía sin esta ciudad.

Recoleta Cemetery

At 1800 hours the bell tolls and the gate to La Ciudad de los Muertos is closed. They lock up the dead. They put chains and padlocks on the door to each eternal home – to keep . . . someone . . . from getting out – or . . . someone . . . from getting in. Buried in compartments, surrounded by apartments – the dead are discontent. In this city within a city there is little peace when the living come to ogle as if at a zoo. So, the question that I ask of you is ‘who is watching whom?’