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February 24, 2006
latin quarter
the spanish candles
wicks unlit
gather moss in the chamberpot
crossing themselves
in front of cathedrals
built by their conquerors
who have long gone
leaving them
to their mixed blood
their arrested progress
the legacy of culture
they can never match
thousands of years
and the ruins still stand
mocking them
mocking us all
for my people too
are just mice in the turnstile
praying to a plaster fairytale
when it is necessary
or when reality
supplies them with there mortality
they turn to him
open their hearts
so desperate
to him
because what is death
if one cannot come through it
unscathed
these daytrippers
part time volunteers
in the houses of the holy
need an afterlife
but I only need
what is front of me
my eyes see clearly
I hear the discrepancies
they put blinders to
crossing themselves
in front of the cathedral
on the way
to the daily thieveries
they commit
in their shops
a framed print
of the sacred heart
overlooking the tables
in the restaurants
where menus with no prices
await their victims
all those holy souls
both here
and abroad
can have the clouds
they covet and invent
to themselves
as I shun them in this world
I certainly have no desire
to see them
anywhere else
the world
is a tragic comedy
a setting
for delusions
more than miracles
and among the disorder
the confusion
sometimes there is a window
a doorway
a place outside the area
we fashion our lives
some need shutters
other deaden the bolt
but I
I step outside
while the light
is still young
and the truth
while so cold
is none the less
reality
Posted by Drexler at 08:47 AM
city of lost stations
in the dream
if you can call it a dream
for its more like
the same chapter of a film
reinventing itself again and again
fueled by insomnia and insects
by liquor and codeine
by hollow water bottles
and padlocked gates
seperating us
from grey streets, vomit, graffiti
rapists, deformities, bulletholes
these things I take with me
under my pillow
that feels like so many clods of rice
beneath my grimy curls
and grisly cheeks
I wake after some time
and poke at the clock
alone in the empty hours
coughing blood
and choking on phlem
breathing like the marathon
no water
the room saturated in sweat
my mind plays with stock footage
absurd obsessive compulsion
preventing a relapse into slumber
the hours drag lumber through the dark
somewhere
somehow
I escape
wake to a curtain filled with sunlight
steady my vertigo
and dress
search my pockets to varify the appropriate coins
and close the door tightly
caution the stairs
and find the deadbolt bolted
call the attendant
and hit the street, reeling
all I want
is some water
the early hour peasants
offer crates full of dyed cereal
and sacks of mildewed confetti
water guns
and spider masks
three blocks later
its shampoo
and vegetable oil
years of it
mountains of condensed milk cans
but no water
I find myself in the apocolypse
barrels of bubbling muck
stirred by clubfoots
chipped glasses full of steam
in the claws of onlookers
I pause for breath
glancing into the bed
of the truck beside me
assorted slabs and loose ends
of meat
the sable head of a cow
velour contour
lies gracelessly atop the carnage
its onyx eyes glistening
speaking aloud
but suffering nothing more
than the awkwardness of its dismemberment
another head
stripped clean
other then a fuzzy little nose
that someone must have forgotten
I sit down
the train tracks
are cold and reflective
the morning is rising
from behind a broken building
light polarizes
the circus of the inferno
I head back
the way I came
stumble into
two bottles of water
and carry them
back to the dark
Posted by Drexler at 08:19 AM
February 15, 2006
cafe turistica
cold tile and shambles of rain
lace the bevelled runway
powerlines look to be
telegrams to incompletion
and a hollowed and bound feline
suspended from a hook,
is just part of a cure
for whatever ails the cause
guitarists unsure of their keys
lean beneath false domes
and pluck at sad trivialities
while the pigeons just add
to the general idea of confusion
tourists in their tourist costumes
sit behind windows and tables
in the tourist cafes
sipping on imported fare
and in their daydreams
in all their experiences
they see nothing
they seek nothing
nothing but home
I order some kind of soup
from a garbled looking man
working from a hole in the wall
something to warm my hands
and take my mind
away from itself
Posted by Drexler at 02:37 PM
the center of La Paz
the captains of the new burger king
didnt give me a crown
they gave me back my bolivianos
after the hot fudge meltdown
I broke apart some spanish
in an attempt to train the crew
but with my majors being vodka and english
we parted like a failure in glue
and all the god damn stairs I stumble
just to get back up to the top
while riot gear junkies
congregate in doorways they don't shop
discussing asassinations they wish to provoke
behind the polished shields they cop
we went to see king kong
and my tank was overloaded
naomi's nipples were taped down
and the backlighting was corroded
outside the theatre
rats were racing through the maze
shoe shine boys in ski masks
were doing what only pays
grubby hands grasp for a jangle
with the faces perfectly trained
and you argue with yourself
about the reality of their pain
an accordion without eyes
a voice thats missing a hand
the only thing thats lacking
is a reason for this band
I found some old currency
the wife; an antique doll
and a few other items
for friends I cannot recall
I saw the old train station
from the taxi window to our hotel
imagined carriages departing
at the strike of a brass bell
and wished I were on one
instead of litigating visions of hell
Posted by Drexler at 02:17 PM
February 14, 2006
the spirits
california is peeling
into the size of mexico
and even I
am having trouble
my lips
flaking off
you see
I wouldnt pay the indians beneath the felt hats
a fee
for wearing out my soles
and the spirits were taking notes
they were dredging the lake
for repercussions
and so
we were ultra violated
the sun dial was set to 375 degrees
the lakefront breeze turned to gravel
and six hours later
we were
non refundable
even the mosquitos had their way
once they found us
a few days later
wandering inside the graveyard
peering into open caskets
and soda can vases
filled with dying stalks
a couple days
after the boat
the bus
and the mudslides
we put some gunk on my lip
that reminded me of
conductant
it helped the soup go down
without any additional scarring
and left me feeling
mentholated
there was a cat
crying inside a locked sack
and french magazines
lingering from the 70's
in a mansion off the plaza
we had pizza and chocolate bars
in the torture chamber cum tv room
on couches that moaned and maintained
while we watched a 50 centavo film
that I couldnt translate
back into its native tongue
the indians wouldnt sell me the answer
in the markets that they store
so I climbed up to the virgin territories
and slowly speak and spelled
my way
into a large bottle of Singani
back in front of the backgammon board
I was pitching dice into the fireplace
pouring glass after glass
between my charred lips
wishing well to the spirits
that burn a different torch
that those on the island
of the sun
Posted by Drexler at 01:01 PM
February 03, 2006
the coffin monkey
the chain mail aspects
of this alpaca poncho
slung like a hamlet over a body in motion
is all switchblades and switch backs
confering between layers
brass bands and candlelabras
tow the line down main st.
copper coins mingle amongst seashells
and serpentine
being tarnished enough
to apply glitter
inside a satchel of phosphoresce
even the coffin monkey
shakes off the dust
and puts on his best scarlet vestige
his cymbals only need a few cranks
to team him up with the circus
wholesome looking characters
pass around bottles of Pisco
like a covent of witches
inside the darkened doorways
littered with the remains
of the day
granite archways
lean towards the receding shadows
as dimestore cowboys
target ziplocked jeans
and the hints of soft laughter
a barrel of chifa
and a mug of jasmine tea
defy the bombardments of song
spread thin
behind a cellophane windshield
it carousels this house of mirrors
until fireflies
swim beneath the hammock of the moon
small change has risen
from the tomb
we all tread on baroque lanscapes
carving figure eights
on the landfills that can afford us
keeping a razors edge,
a fine and brilliant line
between life
and the living
Posted by Drexler at 09:57 AM