Dark Eyes

Her dark eyes cried for love
Her cheeks, cracked by the 
  blowing wind and searing sun, 
  seldom host tears from dried 
  up wells - dry as the surrounding desert.
For her nine years she has seen 
  more hardships than the collection 
  of my twenty-five.
And yet she still smiles 
  happy within the moment.
She moves a little closer for 
  some warmth from a young man.
A kind of warmth that she has 
  never had - and shall probably 
  never find.
Not the sort of warmth that 
  burns the throat of her father 
  who sits on a distant city's 
  bar stool.

Mystery Man

Mystery man, mystery man 
  where are your legs?
In place of two long ones 
  you only have pegs.
Wheelbarrow for wheelchair 
  rucksack for pants, 
  buzzing with fleas 
  and covered by ants.

In front of the death house 
  for cows pigs and sheep,
Your colleague deposits you 
  to beg for your keep.
Quarters and halves 
  of cows pass you by, 
  ears go unhearing 
  the words that you cry. 
  The bus gets it's load. 
  It's passengers gawk. 
  You receive not a soles 
  from those that can walk.
 
Misery man, misery man 
  you know it so well.
No dreams of life's pleasures 
  Simply living in hell.
 
1981

Proud to be

 He is proud to be 
  a Chilean sergeant 
  as the shadow of his 
  saber cuts across the 
  deformed stumps of a beggar
  who sits at the door
  of the cathedral
and is proud to be alive.

1981

Muted Medicant

He walked down the street.
His voice etched a plea in the air,
to buy his candies. 
But what bading voice was this 
 that had no form at all? 
A shrill! A shriek! A gurgling 
 burble drowned out by the 
 roar of diesel engines. 
And his cry was barely noticed. 
It was but another noise amidst
 the crushing ocean of noise.
Yet it was a plea.
And the bus horn bellowed. 
A plea for a warm bed. 
And the taxis raced their engines. 
A plea for life. 
And the drivers cursed their tardiness
 and played their horns some more. 

1981

Why Does She Bother (The Bus Is Overdue)

There he stands at the bus stop; 
 Feet apart, hands behind his back, 
 his attaché hangs from his fingers 
She, with high heels tied to her feet,
is wrapped around him;
 Fingers searching his black leather jacket 
 for some warmth. 
Her lips smother his (always motionless). 
His emotionless eyes dart from side to 
side, searching for the bus already due. 
Her eyes are closed and see only 
the splendor of this man (such a lover). 
He raises his wrist behind her 
head to check his digital watch. 
Her lips beg his; still motionless. 
His eyes dart from side to side. 
The bus is overdue.

1981

Rio Paraiba

The truck took the bridge on that 
              sunny afternoon.
There was chatter of the market 
              place ahead.
Nine people, off to sell their goods 
              and buy a few to boot.
               A top for a little boy.
                 A dress for a little girl.
                   Pots and pans for the folks.
                    And maybe some sweets,
                     to share with all.
River Paraiba snaked silently below.
An old tire gasped it's last sigh.
And then there were only two. 

1981

Two Harvests

Green, so lush.
Soil so moist and rich.
It is true that gold drops from 
  the trees - coco trees.
It is also true that the mulattas are 
   as beautiful as so many a song
   and poem have given testimony.
And they are also fertile like the soil.
And they are also ripe like the trees.
And their fruits are moist, 
   like leaves that drip a morning dew.
But their product has not the same market value, 
              as the chocolate that drops 
              from the trees.
Gold as the coco pod, they drop 
   as the harvest comes time, yet not 
   blessed with the same careful process 
   as the beans which are cradled with care.
And often, they are the same men, 
   who sow the seeds for the two harvests.
   
1981

Tears Fall Softly

"Just a few pennies my friend.
Help this crazy old cripple just a little.
See how I hop around on these 
  legs that flop about like 
  the leaves of the coconut tree.
It makes you smile when I raise 
  the clouds of dust as I sweep 
  the stone walk with my rag 
  wrapped limbs.
And listen to this voice!
Have you ever heard anything 
  like it?
It takes all of my concentration 
  just to keep my tongue from 
  between these decayed teeth.
Such a smile, huh?
Your brilliant and perfect smile 
  just proves that you are amused 
  by my jagged molars that 
  hunger to chew.
Give me something for your amusement.
Just a few pennies please." (And from
the blue eyes in the bus window, tears fell softly).

1981

Scum of the Sea

Blond cunt hairs, I tell ya
  That's what she's got.
And boobs like you fools 
  have never laid eyes upon."

He pulls from his wallet a 
  Polaroid shot of a brown 
  eyed, bleach blonde woman.
She appears to be filled to her 
  ears with that dirty cum 
  that rides the stormy cargo 
  ships of that foamy sea.
These men piss their loaded 
  pistols in a war to hide 
  from their own prostituted lives.
Hidden in the genitals of the 
  loaded ore ships, they are 
  stroked by the passionless 
  rhythm of their duties.
And once in port, the green cum that fills 
  their pockets, (their only reward), 
  is invested in 
  a little "love"
  to assure them that their 
  pecker still pecks,
  and also in an orgy of firewater
  to achieve the only orgasm that their lives allow,
  an escape from the truth.
And the business folk of that 
  bustling drain that milks the 
  blood of the sea, clap their hands 
  in glee as those men 
  line up at the porcelain to 
  upchuck their green wads.
Granny's corner food mart sells plastics - The shoe shine
  boy has got French Ticklers.
  The clinic has got penicillin. 
  The blond has a worn out cunt. 
  The tide surges and another 
  ship comes to port.

(A port city on the west coast of S. America in 1981)

The Trashpile

From those precious mansions, 
walls topped with spike and broken glass, 
comes the fermenting table scraps 
over which vulture competes with mendicant.

Oh, but it makes sense now.
I see how it works.
I am grateful that this egalitarian system
respects every form of life. 
Even the buzzard, yes, that creature 
that thrives on the carcasses of the great
societies of animals, can obtain
nutrition from remains of prosperity.

I saw it work. 
There atop a heap, 
fresh with a load just trucked in, 
under an inventively constructed shelter 
of spineless umbrellas and outdated wallpaper, 
flattened chemical drums and cardboard containers 
used to transport new televisions and stereos, 
there, 
there was the perfect exemplification of how it all functions. 
There sat the lowest form of the highest form of life.

The vulture squawked. 
The form leapt from his squalid shelter 
too late losing yet another battle, 
another morsel, another day of life, 
another grain of human dignity.

The vulture swallowed rapidly and left to preen it's wings.

(Ilheus 1981)