Saturday, December 11, 2010

On the Way to Chacras

A wild pack of mutts kept their heads down and looked for food. They had mastered the art of look-no look, not even moving eyeballs in vain, save for a few glances to throw off the rest of them. They were everywhere as stand in ghosts for the barrios further out from the city center, out toward Chacras where a couple was abruptly warned by a cyclist of the danger- not of a bored policeman, but a serious threat- one embodied by the general rule that noone ever got hurt from crossing the street at the sight of some doberman/labrador mix, or the appearance of such anyway.
The heat smells of pine and blueberry bushes, nanking cherry pits spit on the lawn next to the crab apple tree that used to trick the birds into flying into the window too high to reach, even on tiptoes. We had to close the curtain on the sliding door, even at night because of the bats.
On tile, warm as body heat, this is written. Arid desert breeze juxtaposed with fountains not auspicious as the lincoln, not minimal but rather grandiose in a suggestion of aquatic sprawl, dim lights offering more than the satire previously provided. Some highlights of the central construct, the stoic recipient of the aqueous innuendo pick up the last glimmer of airbrushed sunspots across the tits and right cheek (grapes and book in ornamental slumber) as the last of the beast's horns are squeezed into the evening like a tube of toothpaste or the application of a condom, the fountains start giving purpose to the reflected illumination.
A pair of waders turns on the arachnid-wrought iron lamps- still done by hand, might as well be oil lamps- naptha still fresh in the nose as pine and blueberries.
They had to close the back door because of the bats. He walked across the pond each morning, that murky green the color of an army uniform, with an old pickling bucket, mostly used for eggs. It made all the dishes smell like egg salad sandwiches when mother used it for washing. To this day, empanadas on wrought iron display cases always bring the ghost of all the pickled yolks backlit by naptha lamps ooooh and the tile, warm as body heat, red sand and the murky water the color of pickle buckets the flacos on the corner use to douse the fiats and fords for a 2 peso note with a wild mutt look- no look, trying to squeeze out the night like a tube of toothpaste.
Palates of blueberries and nanking cherries shade themselves under a crab apple tree among the red dust and the arachnids who inhabit the nearby wrought iron fense. A stray cat gives a masterful look- no look up towards a window not unlike a bored policeman watching the aqueous sprawl squeeze out the night like the applicaton of a condom, first the grapes, then the books, the tits, and finally the bull's horns.
A pair of waders lights the lamps as a mutt drinks from the murky green water. A faint smell of naptha and pine drifts through the crab apple trees overhead. Sunspots like stand in ghosts offering more than satire dot and slowly fizzle from display cases and old pickle buckets as curtains squeeze out the night like a cyclist's warning on the way to Chacras

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