The Gitano sings No puedo ir in the old brick kiln.
His face wrapped in tragedy, is almost comic,
but his voice travels, wrapping itself snakelike
through sensuous bends and crenellations
of the old brick kiln chambers where, as kids
we used to sneak in to play in the thick dust.
The flamenco dancer’s hands speak to the night
The flamenco dancer’s hands speak to the night
wrapped in triste, and la vida es el muerte.
He is plucking syllables from the air
He is plucking syllables from the air
and his pelvis pounds out the consonants.
Vowels escaping on the outbreath,
and the stars convulse into tears
caught in the night’s dark throat.
Desire wears the face of a dancer.
The old brick kiln where we once explored,
was rubble and spiders, for nearly a century,
it rose and fell under Jupiters neglectful influence,
and fell again under Mercury retrograde.
After the flamenco set, Herman, Verona and I dance
After the flamenco set, Herman, Verona and I dance
and sweat under the stars, on the roof
of what was once an honest building,
now filled with earth-shattering disco
to end this summer. Killing Me Softly
brought me back to Amsterdam, last summer,
and all the men killing me softly with their songs.
The disco ball drops, scattering stars onto the bay.
29 Aug, Larkspur Landing/San Quentin
