Poetry

Disassembly Line Nothing Like Barcelona

Disassembly Line
Liberia, Africa 2002

The block is huge - refracting 
metallic light, out of place 
in the sandy loam. We pry 
it to pieces with sticks and axes.

Strange swirls - blue, green, red wire 
carbonated steel flat as an elephant ear
machete bounces, shatters
plastic casing - old bones.

Sort shards
small exotic bugs 
valuable millipedes - platimuum
whispered the truck-man. 

Peel back coloured skins
to reveal golden fibered fruit
I slip strands beneath my tongue
to later fix a cooking pot.

Once I saw the electric beauty 
glow brighter than the moon
but their magic is oozing pungent blue
when we touch these frail coffers.

Nothing Like Barcelona

Its nothing like Barcelona.  Santana sounds hollow.  
85 degrees plus - humid.  But there  are no slats 
of sunlight tossed by Venetian blinds across a marred 
wooden floor.  I have beige stain-resistant carpet.  

I turn off the ac, open all the windows.  But can't summon 
the cross breeze, the ceiling fan quietly tip toes across the ceiling
no romantic whiz or clicking. No lime stains in the sink, no rust 
no mildew in the bath.  Walls white - no wrinkled peeling orange paint.  

The birds are having civilised dinner conversation.  A blue jay 
just passed a dinner roll to a squirrel. I hunger for the filth
of Barcelona.  Street chatter floating up from the street 
a distant piano - a girl laughing - a passionate argument.