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“The Boat to Santa Rosalina” by © Timothée Barrus by boat to santa rosalina with the mexican whores/ having left mazatlan forever/ i was reassembled there by brown boys in exile from their father's tombs/ all my close friends are whores/ juanita has the tequila/ we are with the peasants top deck of the boat/ if it rains.../ it won't it's blazes sun and mountains all around us falling and towering/ the sea of cortez whose echo glitters back the golden light dripping not unlike a painting of a woman on a wall/ we sit toward the stern facing east in our sunglasses/ having slept with movie stars for years/ blank oblivion is sleeping with one more american/ mi dios los gallos de los estadounidenses aburrida mi garganta/ (**my god americans cocks boring my throat) we are surrounded by the poorest of the poor with their chickens and their goats/ the woman beside me breast-feeds a baby whose brown eyes are elliptical inhabitants of pandemonium/ baja can only be good for business/ the raven country club will be ripe with souls near death with fitful breathing/ the rich and the filthy rich/ the pueblo bonito pacifica will have room service/ beyond mere accommodation/ i accommodate/ it is what i do/ the peasant children in their rags and clinging to their cardboard boxes stare/ everything is in its place except us, juanita says/ they have chickens and goats, we have tequila and paper cups/ when i'm dead i want to come back to cabo and play football on the beach/ wtf yanks call it soccer/ i have a new speedo -- white -- and when you get it wet you can trace every vein/ i will sleep in beds made for tall men and make love in upstairs rooms that smell of lilacs and the sea and narrow country roads going north all the way to tijuana/ no whore wants to stay too long in tijuana/ omfg in nervous haste/ our arms and severed heads like branches in the street after a furiously delicious summer storm/ i pass my paper cup to juanita who fills it and whose eyes even in eyeliner and mascara are like the sealed jars she used to collect when she lived in mazatlan/
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“Economy of reds” by © Carolyn Srygley-Moore With an economy of reds I paint your portrait. Smear of lipstick beneath the maple tree. No speech of God. No speech of love.
We touched like lines crosshatched to weave a semblance of water. A flood
of words unspoken of secrets destructive to the underside
of boats. Strange how we read one another like familiars.
Strange how we touch like lines across the world globe.
No speech of either God or love. The boat sways like hips like mouths like the economy of reds.
I will never again say I am afraid in your presence. I'll buy a round of dark beer for the house
I'll buy a round with the money in my empty pocket. What one can purchase
with emptiness is everything is a lifetime of song of bee stings of broken piano keys.
Emptiness fills the echo. I eat the echo as one eats red shadow upon the sea the carapace of sea.
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i accommodate
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| (William Cleveland, Founder & Director, Center for the Study of Art and Community) | ||
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