Imprints
At the age of five
I was a febrile communist
and smoker of cubans
by default.
Eggshell integral
of childhood
that kept peace
and my mother's
home made mayonnaise
and the typicalities
of traveler cuisine
sans the televisual
or multicultural frame
made-mayonnaise
and laughter
from a seabed
in the place of birth.
We had left municipalities
with cultural codes
of historical academia
emphatically cognitive
malacologies and marine
curses. Stuck in La Nueva Cancion
and its exiles and common
wanderers. Here the taxonomies,
post war cybernetics
and the cosmic technologies
plied in an interdisciplinary
baroque between poet and mathematicians
the nylon guitar and they with
the good singing voices.
I stared at images of
murals that were hallucinogens
of astral hope. Where construction
followed form and theologies
of silver and trip of sauces
and the mayo coagulated.
We played with wires
coathangers and the clothes line
we understood was an antenna
turn the handle and tune.
The city dwellers
want to head to the portside
or the South whose
astronomy, grey coaled sands
sugar granule winter
woollen wear
are preserved antiquity
fresh with a new layer
of slaughter.
Where the solitude
of mariners is so
lofty the archipelago
gets confused
for Scandinavia.
The barnyards
the red wine and rocketfuel
and the places where
the generations
lost their virginity
or saw a sibling killed.
My faded jade-memory
doesn't even near the rigour
of a unitary identity unless
stuck like an insect in ethno-amber.
Any national consciousness is
pinpointed in such fossils.
The scaffolding of the fossil
has a pictograph inscripted
folding back the fossil lectern
of colonial scholars
on barque to the Sorbonne
to escape the abalone stick
of biblical codices
in search of revolution
and enlightenment.
The transeunt student
near monastic on long return
brought wax and subterfuge.
Rousseau and Montesquieue
entreaty over the lines
of Fortran to bring
flasks of light
from an Arcadian dawn
to a hopeful industrialisation.
There wrecked by Cai Cai Vilu
and La Pincoya.
The doubled flowers
of the straits
emit a call
only the moon
jailed in her barbed wire
can hear all teletyped
in ministerial card catalogues
archived in basements
of important
and beautiful buildings.
I was a febrile communist
and smoker of cubans
by default.
Eggshell integral
of childhood
that kept peace
and my mother's
home made mayonnaise
and the typicalities
of traveler cuisine
sans the televisual
or multicultural frame
made-mayonnaise
and laughter
from a seabed
in the place of birth.
We had left municipalities
with cultural codes
of historical academia
emphatically cognitive
malacologies and marine
curses. Stuck in La Nueva Cancion
and its exiles and common
wanderers. Here the taxonomies,
post war cybernetics
and the cosmic technologies
plied in an interdisciplinary
baroque between poet and mathematicians
the nylon guitar and they with
the good singing voices.
I stared at images of
murals that were hallucinogens
of astral hope. Where construction
followed form and theologies
of silver and trip of sauces
and the mayo coagulated.
We played with wires
coathangers and the clothes line
we understood was an antenna
turn the handle and tune.
The city dwellers
want to head to the portside
or the South whose
astronomy, grey coaled sands
sugar granule winter
woollen wear
are preserved antiquity
fresh with a new layer
of slaughter.
Where the solitude
of mariners is so
lofty the archipelago
gets confused
for Scandinavia.
The barnyards
the red wine and rocketfuel
and the places where
the generations
lost their virginity
or saw a sibling killed.
My faded jade-memory
doesn't even near the rigour
of a unitary identity unless
stuck like an insect in ethno-amber.
Any national consciousness is
pinpointed in such fossils.
The scaffolding of the fossil
has a pictograph inscripted
folding back the fossil lectern
of colonial scholars
on barque to the Sorbonne
to escape the abalone stick
of biblical codices
in search of revolution
and enlightenment.
The transeunt student
near monastic on long return
brought wax and subterfuge.
Rousseau and Montesquieue
entreaty over the lines
of Fortran to bring
flasks of light
from an Arcadian dawn
to a hopeful industrialisation.
There wrecked by Cai Cai Vilu
and La Pincoya.
The doubled flowers
of the straits
emit a call
only the moon
jailed in her barbed wire
can hear all teletyped
in ministerial card catalogues
archived in basements
of important
and beautiful buildings.
