Aug '02 [Home]
Storms Named for Women
Cuba Alphabet Prompts
The Factory of Beauty
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Storms Named for Women
Havana wrestles with voodoo rum and rumba,
Handsome, he rides the wild mulatta,
her hips swinging a Carib hurricane
I'm off, comrade, to the big bash
At the end of the dead street
Melons pumpkins, green plantain fronds
Pineapple hats like African crowns
The tears of the trees are a cool mist
The morena smells of soil, sex, & coconut, skin warm to touch
Pissing into the night water
Are you man enough to drown mosquitoes with your pungent stream?
Catch the moon, catch the moon
Bring it home on a hook
The moon that turns our women to witches
Happy is he who drinks
Nothing spoils his sleep
Swing it momma, sing, sing
Molasses on my meat, lick it, lick it
Allowing her breasts to be manhandled, smiling
Red-lipped, she was drunk
Dark musical beauty, slender
Palm tree legs dance on a carpet of sea
Spanish linen on her legs
An onion scent in her hair
Half white, half black, all Cuban
Rooster of the tropics, audacious palette, lightning
Dissolving in molasses of black cunt
Island under the fist of crushed cane rum
Nursery of drums, drowsy as an amphibian
Soaking up the sun's thumping rhythms
Lukewarm, sensual, slow water
churned molasses by the rock shore
the night of your eyes, the smell
of lemon tobacco pineapple
symphony of sweat, soft cotton
your body a soprano in the sun
unhurried fuck, love, suck
fragrance of sandalwood burning
tongue honey, O Cuba, sensual island
Antilles, bathtub of Columbus's sea
dying at night, at sunrise reborn
a tropical song of storms named for women
huge mushrooms, charged by lightning, strong as a horse
starfish & snail, crab, lobster, conch, mussel, squid
tits jiggling in rapture of rumba and hurricane
I pick imagery like fresh-cut roses
Afternoon fruit, night arrives
And steps into the water, its toes the first stars
Silence so close to a scream
A long song with short words
Sun to sun, setting to rise
One day becomes the next
I want to hold you with my tongue
I face the sea, on her horizon
Fades the wing of a sail
on her way to the other world
Chango: thunder, sky
Creole: nbsp;born in the island
Obatala: god, idol
Patois: nbsp;mishmash, lingo
Callaloo: gumbo, soup
Cuba Alphabet Prompts
The Russian-built power plant within wind distance of the granite hotel
is clearly atomic in mass. Under the theory that when you have lemons
you make lemonade, the hotel gift shop sells t-shirts splashed front & back
with the long iconic shadow of the reactor. B— bishop.
The paramour of the bishop was a piece of ass.
Infidelity & sexual deviousness is assumed in Cuban men.
They seldom disappoint this prejudice.
In a poor country, the easiest thing to sell is sex. C— censure.
The most invidious form of censorship is self-censorship.
Ask a Cuban.
He won't answer you, but you can ask him. D— drench.
In the afternoon it rains and we get soaked & dry
out again so that no one would guess we'd been
drenched between lunch and the multi-colored mixed
drinks of nightfall. E— Eskimo.
I feel like an Eskimo or a Norwegian in the airport in my heavy clothes
struggling with our bags and a customs procedure that speaks torrid Spanish. F— fuck.
What the fuck am I, an Italian American businessman from The Bronx, doing in a mafia hotel?
It's like a fucking clicheacute;, or something. G— gas.
Gasoline is expensive. That's why Cubans ride bikes & have great legs. H— humidor.
Jesus! Has anyone seen my varnished oak humidor? I— invest.
Europeans invest in sugar rum & hotels, also nickel-mining & sex. J— jazz.
All Cuban pop music is jazz.
At least for the singers;
the musicians practice. K— kiss.
Cubans kiss cheeks more often than Americans shake hands. L— leech.
The Cuban word for leech means literally 'bloodsucker.'
Not in a vampire context.
It applies to those who are selfish,
politically backward. M— museum.
The Cheacute; museum is a cathedral of the New Socialist Man. N— nylons.
A pair of nylons can get you a young girlfriend. And her mother too. O— overcoat.
You won't need gloves or an overcoat in Trinidad. P— poem, pale, pawn.
All school children can recite a poem or two by Martiacute.
To be pale is to stick out like a white thumb.
Neither a Soviet nor an American pawn, Cuba is dangerous. Q— question.
The first question Cubans ask is which American city I am from,
Followed by a smile when I say New York.
The Apple, not Miami. R— rum.
I have no idea what the local water tastes like. I hydrate with rum.
Cubans, when they can, drink bottled water. From Mexico. S— shower.
Sometimes even in tourist hotels the water stops while you are
naked in the shower. You wait. You have sex again. T— teeth.
Perhaps it's the lack of dentists: nbsp; Cubans have perfect teeth. U— urban.
Even urban Cubans are relaxed; they dress up, but aren't harried. V— vogue.
Bicycle shorts, the skin-tight black ones, are worn by
hefty middle-aged Cuban women who in their culture aren't
fat; they are curvaceous, voluptuous, in vogue, in demand. W— wine.
Cuban wine is cheap, but no one drinks it. X— x-ray.
In a most clinics, x-rays are as high-tech as it gets. Y— yellow.
Several of the young women at the bar have yellow hair.
I mean yellow, not blonde. Z— zeal.
Ask a Cuban what happens after Castro dies and the usual answer is:
They say it with zeal.
I have no idea if it's true. It's difficult to believe.
Perhaps they think it's what I want to hear. Truth
cannot be conveyed unless trust pre-exists. Who
would trust a back-packed American in Havana?