|
While the Hurricane Kills Down South Written on 1. The
wind ruffles the scorched, late summer leaves. My lover had a bad dream. “It
must be the hurricane down South. I feel weird myself,” I explicate. “Honey,
why you always come up with things that are not?” he grumbles. “Things
that are not? Haven’t you seen the papers? It can twirl all the way up here! “They
told them to leave the city. Leave at once! Why are they looting? Where will
they take those things to? The city is under the water! Don’t you understand?
They have to leave their pets behind! There are corpses lying on the streets.
The coffins are floating down the river! The pest will burst out! Get out
now!” “Honey,
these people have nothing! They lived there all their lives! They don’t know
better. They are afraid anywhere else. They were not looting. They just got
survival supplies. The white people left with their trunks in luxury buses!
They left long time ago! Let the Blacks die. Get rid of them. That’s how it
is. This country is foul!” “You
exaggerate. You wish there was an evil design behind this mess but all it is is just leadership screwed up in their head. They lost
touch with reality. I’ve been thru this. Our dictator had golden toilet seats
while we were starving. They go crazy in the head. You guys give away your
freedom. Why I came here for? To watch another illiterate moron speak on TV?
I can’t believe you elected an illiterate for President. And what is this, a
dynasty? Where is 2. I
left Just
in time for the blown-up towers. The
cancer of termites and water was eating the city away. The city was on an IV
system, on artificial lungs. Its inhabitants knew it was bound to die. And
now it died. The
French Quarter theatrical weirdoes staring at you provocatively. The revelers
in the gay bar streets. All under the water. Maybe
they are still at it during the night, now not worried anymore about when the
city will sink under the water. Now, let’s party forever! All under the
water. At
home there is an entire village under the water, with steeple and white
peasant houses. They flooded it because the dictator wanted more electric
power and he decided to have the turbine dam right there! Flood this
ancient village! Kick the people out. What heartbreak? Off you go, villagers!
Let progress open its wide avenue. Flood the church! All
it’s left from my Louisiana is two dozens of plastic cups I have from the
parades with Bacchus, Denizens of the Deep, with sirens and dickhead squids,
and dolphins; Okeanos Ladies and Gentlemen,
Children of All Ages, half-horse, half-fish; and the Peasants Are Revolting
with a wiggy flamingo or stork nobleman and
toothless peasants scooping their noses while furiously brandishing bones and
wooden spoons and hay forks. And assorted carnival paraphernalia. Some
pageantry fridge magnets. I love the Mardi Gras beads. I have a suitcase of
them stored somewhere. The
memory of walks around downtown. My screenplay teacher who wrote about a
neurotic girl who painted her The
out-of-the-beaten-path jazz spots. The old whore house attic, now rented out
to yuppies, we were hosted one weekend. Its beds pulling out of the walls.
The palm trees. The park with trimmed hedges around a glorified stone general
where I met a Canadian pen pal for the first time. The
sugar-dusted beignets. Cups
and beads. 3. The
two of us huddling on the subway. An Asian cutie pie trust-fund baby with a
cap matching her suede boots plants herself across from us. She crosses her
legs to cover her panties, but only to expose her thighs up to her waist
underneath her miniskirt. My
lover looks half my age today. I didn’t sleep enough. She grins. Mistakes us
for a down-the-hill art chick with a poodle and a $3,000 a month loft,
walking her gigolo. It
tires me. Pettiness of women. I
take my hand away from my love. People
are crammed in the Superdome, famished, drinking their own piss, scrapping
the feceas off the four-day-used pampers, shooting
at the rescue helicopters. My
lover takes gently back my hand and talks me thru the subway ride. We
go about our day: Tame
waves. Imagine
them turning into a menacing wall of water! Our city covered in water. How
high? Sky scrapers. Boats fishing people out of the My
lover still restless about his nightmare. I was in it: in a tight black
leather suit, at the We
stroll on the The
old ladies chatting in front of their apartment block; the grumpy blonde
youngster, flushed cheeks, selling pirogees. I
buy eggplant for .59 and black berries for .99 Home.
Where’s my home? We
had an earthquake at home, the roosters and animals raising hell in the
night. We had two earthquakes. Death. Block of flats tumbled across the
avenues. People buried alive under the debris. Looters stole the wedding
rings of dead people. I won’t live in a place with earthquakes. I left. Haven’t
called in a while my mom. Now it’s flood there too. Home. 4. Back
to our We
walk by a square in a park with sea lions coming out half of the cement
pavement, spurting water at intervals. The
T-shirts with the French Quarter masks and the yellow LSU Go Tigers!
T-shirts. On
the river walk a grandma watches tense from her bench her two grandkids
running around. The river is cruised by boats. We peak thru the windows: a
birthday bash. Glitzy people fight their way thru a hall filled with millions
of orchids. Millions! I pay one dollar a stem at the corner florist. Millions
of orchids! After the party the waiters will depart with armful of orchids,
the purple cups crushing under their own weight. The
garbage dump will brim with more of them, broken, trampled, shoved in with
the food leftovers. Famished
packs around the Superdome. 5. In
the dead of the night we watch the Russian movie. We make pop corn from
scratch, watching the jumpy kernels come to life, the cooking pan lid pushed
up until we can’t control them anymore and popcorn spills around the kitchen.
Life. We
watch the film, cozy like two peas in a peapod. The wind makes the grass
flow. Her husband left her with two kids. Shaven heads. War. Lice. My
childhood in the village. Shaven skull, to strengthen my thin hair. Two
skinny pigtails, the red ribbon plaited fattens them up. My
mother had thick hair, but the girls in the dorm cut her peasant girl tails
off while she was asleep in the night. To modernize her. We
watch the movie. It’s me who doses off. Brigita! Why do you eat your candy alone under the
cover? Share it, comrade! Your friends shared with you their cakes from home!
Share your candy, Brigita! You don’t fool anyone.
The sound under your cover, Brigita! betrays you! Stop crushing the candy in the dark! I
wake up crying inconsolable. I
want to go home. My
beloved hushes me, Mi cora son. Mi cora son. I
want to go home! Please, please… Agony.
A people dying in agony. I thought I got out of the rat trap when I left
home. Your
arms are my home, mi cora son. |