SHOOTING THE STARS

SHOOTING THE STARS

Last night was small islands of sky in a sea of fog,

like random pieces of an indigo jigsaw puzzle

floating in a moonlit mist of gossamer raiments.

Not a shooting star traversed the sky

& I was too tired to move to a better view. 

I listened to the Ethiopians on the balcony. 

A whiff of clove & the small red eyes of Gauloises.

It's 2 AM. Do they never sleep? 

An oasis of clarity in a diatribe of foreign syllables, 

as they said "yeah, sure" in perfect American, 

but "OK" with an accent: Ok. So, Ciao. yeah.

Then I imagined I heard the Arabic for stars.

I was listening to the language of the Bible,

learning a Babylon of Amharic by osmosis.

The Ethiopian god who lives in the clouds

Waqa, leaned over the balcony of the sky

and the laden fog spit its secrets on the trees

into a testament of dew and fiery dawn.

8/12/09

Life on the balcony

The Ethiopians on the balcony are drumming (indoors) and the call & response sounds like a Lakota Sioux "Budwieser" chant. Where's your audio recorder when you need it? The chant I really wanted to record was of the woman who sang to the to the east one Sunday morning, with a crooning chicken in her hands raised up to the rising sun—before the fateful dispatch. A crack of cartilage followed by the bell sound of bloodletting into the metal washbasin. Added a new twist to the Chicken Every Sunday idea. I couldn't see her, only her shadow playing against the wall. The apartments next door were crack flats (that was exciting) then the complex was sold. For a while it was Little Mexico, then it changed hands again & seems to be a half-way station for the newly arrived—mainly from Africa. No one ever stays long. So it’s hard to meet the neighbors. Everyone lives outside on the lanai, it seems. The balconies look like overloaded Tiajuana busses with their oversized outdoor refrigerators. They love to party late midweek. I could do without the 1AM wake ups & flicked cigarette butts. But it was collectively abfab when Obama got elected. We all did a call & response O-ba-ma, O-ba-ma. O-ba-ma. Only in Oaktown! And then one night I was awakened by a bunch of drunk Africans (on another balcony) singing ala Ladysmith, in harmony, albeit drunkenly. I stood in the moonlight at 3 AM, mesmerized. It never happened again. They come and go like the seasons.

• THE ETHIOPIANS ON THE BALCONY several takes, I never did get it right.
• from Facebook 8/21

THE ETHIOPIANS ON THE BALCONY

ETHIOPIANS ON THE BALCONY CALLING HOME

The Ethiopians on the balcony
woke me from a sound sleep,
calling home to Africa
and shouting into the distance of the night.
I really wish they'd use a better cell connection
or talk indoors, I'm beginning to recognize
words in Tigrinya.

Remind me to tell the story of the woman
who sacrificed chickens every Sunday at dawn.
Wish I had recorded her chanting to the sun.
Then it was crooning chickens on the balcony
in downtown Oakland—until a rooster got into the mix.

6/2/2009


ETHIOPIAN ON THE BALCONY, 3 AM CALL

The Ethiopian on the balcony is calling home again.
He shout the entire distance to Addis Ababa on his mobile.
What is it about 3 AM calls anyway, is the satellite closer?
I'm beginning to pick up Amharic sound bites.
Then he cranks up an Arabic version of the Macareña
heavy on the ululation and drumbeks.
Which makes him shout even louder.
I'm thinking of a bagpipe revenge at 3 AM.
Anyone loan me some warpipes?

7/30/2009 

•      ETHIOPIAN ON THE BALCONY
• The Ethiopian on the balcony is calling home again. 

  He shout the entire distance to Addis Ababa on his mobile. 

  I'm beginning to pick up Tagrinyi words and sound bites. 

  Then he cranks up an Arabic version of the Macareña on the stereo. 

  I roll over and cover my head, my gawd, it’s after 3AM.

  Now he’s dancing on the balcony, a faint glimmer of dawn in the east.

  I give up on sleep, or rather, sleep has given up on me.

  
  

  First draft, except last three lines. from Facebook notes, added 7/21

ETHIOPIANS ON THE BALCONY, DRUMMING

The Ethiopians on the balcony are drumming (indoors)
and the call & response 

sounds like the Lakota Sioux "Budwieser" chant.

I wanted to record the woman who sang to the east 

on Sunday mornings, with crooning chickens 

raised to the sun—before the fateful dispatch. 

Added a new twist to the Chicken Every Sunday idea. 

I couldn't see her, only her shadow playing against the wall. 

The photograph I will never take.

And then one night I was awakened 

by a bunch of Africans (on the balcony) 

singing Ladysmith, albeit drunkenly. 

I stood in the moonlight at 3 AM, mesmerized. 

It never happened again. 

The Africans, they come and go 

on the apartment balconies like the seasons, 

making their way in this northern land.

8/3/2009