Ignoring the local reliquiae —
neoclassical arches in ruin,
courtyards, their fountains toppled,
prados flourishing in prickle-weed, esplanades
no longer level enough to collect rainwater,
much less respect for the Imperio de España
tarnished by an islander’ s mock-British accent —
two fisherman returned at sundown.
Antiquaries themselves, these fishermen
schooled in the currents, the tide,
the tunneled limestone of the coral reefs,
preferred the graceful curves of the £.
Beyond the strings of water
clinging to the windowpane,
there were no cranes, just rain,
a sky blurred by wet glass,
a pond corrugated by raindrops,
and, inside, the smell of naphthalene bars,
a Victrola with a broken arm,
a spotty daguerreotype, a dusty crinoline —
O mildewed, seersucker suits
draped over vacant chairs.
~
[our] nightmare : no
birdsong —
the jungle was riven emptied
of [i sihek] bright blue green turquoise red gold
feathers — everywhere : brown
tree snakes avian
silence —
the snakes entered
without words when [we] saw them it was too late —
they were at [our] doors sliding along
the passages of [i sihek]
empire — then
The fallen Latte is the sign. It is from within the row of Latte that
we feel our strength. It is the severed capstone that gives us Their
message, "Ti monhayon I che'cho." We will not rest until the
Latte is whole.
— Cecilia C. T. Perez from "Signs of Being: A Chamoru
Spiritual Journey" (1997)
~
i haligi
a pillar
i tasa
a capstone
i tataotao
a body
~
his hands —
husk coconut —
cooks and
feeds [us] —
stories — this
raised house —
at quarry
outline forms
He is for a long time bleating the embassy collection:
(water-resistant cot,
a resurgent stretch of storefronts to dive into,
compadre, col legno, funding the new permits, pleasing
room, murderous rain.
Near-spring night, stars on flat blackboards, essay estate
questions passed person to person.
The lottery window
I turn red past,
hyacinth-lanced dawn.
In green tree talk
the transcriber dons a dark robe, a mirror.
A wound is a blossom
but only to the living.
A May night, birdsong
before the first light pierces,
chirps out of blackness:
My daughter's angry at me
and her mother as I
was once angry at mine.
It's a way of crossing over.
I'm so tired now.
And my core's
all water, flowing
somewhere where the sea
can't find her. And neither
can I. How much longer
till I finally lose her? Where
is the first dawn wet blossom?
Who recalls how I touched
What god will catch me
when I’ m down, when I’ ve taken
sufficient drink to reveal
myself, when my words are little
more than a blurring
of consonant and vowel?
I’ m drunk on spring:
branches of waxy leaves that
greet me at my driveway,
a family clutching
trays of sweets.
How can I sing of this?
If I cannot sing, then
make me mute. Or lend me
words, send me
the taste of another’ s prayer,
cool as a coin
newly minted on the tongue.
If a tree falls in a forest,
does it make a sound?
If a rifle fires a shot in the woods,
whose body first hits the ground?
If a group of angry hunters
surrounds, curses at, and accosts you
for wandering onto their land
If you apologize for being lost,
inform you saw no posted signs, swallow
their chinks this and gooks taking over that;
are walking away over mud and fallen leaves when a loud
crack far behind you kicks up black earth
Hope
The political contributions of whatever he creates are coincidental
and, in any event, irrelevant. The musician may not be relying on
mathematical acoustics in his calculations. He may be performing
for auditoriums; thus, his physical realities change as he travels. Music
seems inevitable. Every question entails some notion of what is being asked.
The motley nature is not alien. Certain sounds guide the vulgar mind
to notions not anticipated by those creating the sounds. A bartender
