Sleeping Silos: Verso-diario Rosario

the Neera Naree is in port from Bangkok
loading grain & freights
have the tracks humming overtime in Rosario

(Freitag, 27. Juni 2008)

decaying infrastructure & all, rails
rule this riverport city
que contempla el Paraná while shipments pile in

lovely losses, memory foremost
-- friends drag friendship down in flames next—

struck dumb, failing at a meager room of my own

wounds of anger find paradoxical
healing in acceptance, assumption & full
ownership of this anger...

sing along with Jackson!
‘you shake, I’ll rattle/we can roll on down th line’

(samedi 28 juin-- strange...really--)

--what’s the point of talking to meself in B&W
on th electron-fed page?
what’s th omnisemantic point of existence as abstracted
from th idiot-savant, solipsistic ‘fact’ of existence, anyway???

I seem to be good at pushing
up to th edge & shrinking back, rather than...
self-possesedly contemplating th yawning
abyss I’ve skirted oh-so-coolly?

--to paraphrase one of my favorite Jimmy Cagney
movie death scenes
‘I ain’t so cool’
(needless to say, ‘I ain’t so tough’ by a mile-long shot, either)
...gotta watch those again:
Public Enemy, Roaring Twenties & White Heat
seem th obligatory trilogy for ruthlessly ambitious
entrepreneurial-existential dead-end macho
gangster death-scripts

going nuts, again...
how long can I keep *this* up, haha?
54 years & counting...!

--overwhelmed by unfulfilled dream home possibilities:
a cottage in Calistoga...or the wild Sonoma Coast...a room in an adobe casita between the Andes & the precordillera, in Uspallata or Villavicencio—since I can’t afford the prime boutique jetset vineyard Valle de Uco towns—San Carlos at the southern end, Tunuyán in the North...
what about Falmouth & the Upper Cape?
--& have I really let go of the rías of Galicia, the estuary of the Río Minho with Portugal across the floodplain & the lazy meanders around the sandbanks & beaches by the river's broad mouth?

All the lovely landscapes of this world, whether familiar or alien, well-trod or glimpsed from a high-speed train, rub my face deep into a sense of dislocation & an overwhelming yearning for a home which is swayingly poised on an ever-distant horizon.

never know when I'll have time
to myself or how long it'll last
plus I never heard from da goils
about supp or any other get-together)

always on a short leash, home or elsewhere?
holding the fort, minding the store, waiting
for a callback, a message, a word
that never comes...

knight errant Browne throwback kind of night--
oh Jackson, can you see? any color-code horizon
clear past an isle in the river?

everyman waits as long & deep
just as well as you & I do

there must be a new through-line to find & hold
--to cast & troll, pull & win-- or surrender & release
for tuneful direction blowing in through our worn-out soles...

damn th outlines flattened out, never damn my eyes!