a life less ordinary…

Me encanta como la ciudad
deja caer su ropa sencilla del dia
y se pone su disfraz de la noche.
En un movimento tranquilo y ansioso a la vez,
ella se la quita los trajes, los zapatos negros, las caras aburridas del trabajo,
y por un momento la ciudad esta desnuda.
Desnuda, ella…
brillante
por la luz rosada
del sol bajando sobre el rio.
Despacito…bajando.
Y con la aparencia del atardecer,
la ciudad esta cantando un tema de pasion y amores secretos.
Se levantan los brazos y cae sobre ella,
sin sonido,
un vestido,
rojo como el fuego que quema en los corazones de una pareja de amantes.
Un vestido
que llama memorias
de la primera vez te quedaste despierto
toda la (oscura, escondida, calma)
noche
con una persona que amabas tanto
que ni tenias ganas de
dormir.

I’m halfway through a bottle of Malbec and I’m in my kitchen, listening to Soldiers of Jah Army and cooking a pathetic dinner of white rice topped with onion, zucchini and red pepper. The sizzling vegetables are a comforting sound for some reason. In my head reoccurring images of this afternoon are surfacing. The girls were so content and focused on their macramé bracelets. A volunteer persistently tried to teach them English throughout the activity—“Now does anybody remember how to say, ‘cepillo de dientes’ in English?”—and she also wanted to get people to talk about “what would you do if you were a famous and important person and could do anything?” But for some reason her efforts kind of bothered me…because all those girls wanted to do was make bracelets with macramé. They never asked for us to teach them a foreign language when they can barely read and write in their own. They never proposed a discussion about changing the world or becoming influential figures. So who are we to think that they need to hear those things?

On the way back to the city center the bus stopped at a light next to a group of teenagers sorting through bags of trash by the side of the road. They emerged from the piles with what looked like pizza crusts. I think they were about to eat them and then realized that every car and bus stopped on the road was watching them with disgust. The girl picked up something and hurled it at our bus; it hit a window and bounced off. Hardly anybody flinched. Only one person gasped.

My stomach is still lurching from the smell of the villa.

Dead rotten fish.

At first it throws you off, the rhythm- not-so-quick and not everything-just-when-you-order-it nor just as you want it. An eternity takes the waiter to come over to your table, cross-city travel is half your day. long lines at the grocery store and all you can do is ... [Continue reading this entry]

Your little joints, once so agile and nimble, Now are loath to move, the result of a rough tumble. Beautiful Finger, dressed in Velcro and foam, A splint protects you as I write this poem. Once you ran along the strings of a humming ... [Continue reading this entry]

These feet, grubby (unclean), toenails Between dirty yellow- ness no soap. Did these hands get washed today or yesterday? Bumps on your face your legs Child Ask your mama to clean your feet with soap. Is there enough Laughter in your life? Even the neighborhood dog walks with a limp.

Act II. Thrirteen month later, our hero returns to Argentina, where she fell in love with a country and a man in one full swoop. Some familiar actors are in the scene, although they have undergone costume changes a few ... [Continue reading this entry]