.I.
My father was born in 1948. Between ‘53 and ‘59 Cuban guns
had secured communism as the island’s way of life—well,
a version of it more in spirit with turpentine-thinned
cadmium red and the scent of orange mangoes than with
Marxist/Leninist leanings. He didn’t know it then, it was too early
to be prophetic, but it would chase him from home again.
.II.
The specter of death—black veils, scythe, cold breath—is Shâchath’s most popular look in art
and thought and though he buckles at bloodied post and lintel,
he’s never merciless like the guillotined historical revisions of Antoine de Saint-Just or the
poetic justice of Mengele’s bloated lungs in Brazilian waters; no, he’s white-hot
glow sometimes and a most welcome visitor to the abode.
.III.
My parents hired a housepainter when I was a teenager, Don Hildegardo,
who was old to me then but couldn’t be much older than me now.
He had the confidence of a man who knew the world conformed and met his terms.
He hated microwaves; didn’t trust them, and would leave his lunch
Tupperware in the middle of the yard for Miami’s sun to warm.
.IV.
Isaac’s old man, Spaniard, perpetual 7 a.m. beard—eternal dangling cigarette, fabricated the
best window treatments in South Florida in the late ‘90s;
verticals, curtains, drapes, valances, blinds—venetian and contemporary;
he installed them himself with that old school sense of pride. Wasn’t always like that, early on
his competitor’s subpar product ruled supreme before he dropped
Fidel from the shop’s name.
.V.
I’m not sure the bokeh effect
is deliberate or just
a foil to technical limitations
but I’ve always felt an odd ease
when ‘70s flicks bring
rainy, nighttime street scenes into slow focus,
lights casting acid blotter auras,
the motion of vehicles a hazy lumber
melting into themselves.
.VI.
Translucent bottles—imperfections of heat and chance.
Gold chloride, uranium oxide, manganese, cobalt,
antimony, copper, lead, selenium compounds—electric,
living; permutations of alchemic byproduct.
.VII.
Venezuela elects novelist Gallegos as its first honest president
and almost immediately, a coup d’état overthrows him,
installing the brutal dictatorship of Pérez Jiménez who goes on to enjoy
a decade of savage impunity until he’s overthrown himself.
Stalin buddies up with Chairman Mao and in an unrelated event,
implements the Berlin blockade. Suicide bombers tear up Ben Yehuda,
Jeffers drops his double-axe, Roethke finds his lost son,
Cadillacs get tailfins, Rufino Tamayo captures butterflies.
.VIII.
Lady the Manatee births a single male calf—dubbed Baby—
the State of Florida’s permit allows owner Sammy Stout dominion
over one beast so Baby’s gotta go. Rechristened Snooty,
he’s granted official mascot status for Manatee County in ’66
and enjoys a life of relative leisure and tranquility
safe from propellers and unscrupulous swimmers.
July 23, 2017—two days after his birthday, Snooty drowns
in a freak accident involving a hatch malfunction in his tank.
.IX.
One day, the black will swallow the red—but not Daugavpils,
the city of red bricks.
One day, gods and monsters will cancel each other out, their mythomorphic
tragedy playing to the triumph of razorblade,
palette knife drama—all colors have multiforms, all reds live without
ideology or worry on stretched canvas.
