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title: "schaffen"
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# Eine Figur zu 𝕾𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖋𝖋𝖊𝖓
## Ganz Still und Stumm
Ein Männlein steht im Walde
Ganz still und stumm,
Es hat von lauter Purpur
Ein Mäntlein um.
Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein,
Das da steht im Wald’ allein
Mit dem purpurrothen Mäntelein?
Das Männlein steht im Walde
Auf Einem Bein
Und hat auf seinem Haupte
Schwarz Käpplein klein.
Sagt, wer mag das Männlein sein,
Das da steht im Wald’ allein
Mit dem kleinen schwarzen Käppelein? {cite:p}`Heinrich.1843`
[](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iZteSO0Lico)
## [Anguish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-1PEzkw7aE)
This world is thin, heading towards the sun
The people, they're screaming, they're on the run
The skies have turned, a fiery red
In another few minutes, we'll all be dead
The trees, they're burning at an awful pace
The end is coming, for the human race
Blood and fire, consume the grass
No one escapes, The horrible blast
The water curses, The tongue of the sea
All are consumed, not one is free
The Sun turns black, The Moon to blood
The winds moved the waters to awful flood
Smoke and lighting, scorpion stings
Thunder out of heaven on angel's wing
Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Mars
This planet is one of the falling stars
So I'm taking this ship
And I'm leaving this place
Stealing away, gonna sail through space
Going to the city in the sky
There's mysteries there that you can't buy
Wall of jasper, street of gold
Diamonds and rubies, to behold
Open your eyes, I let you see
I'm the piper, I got the key
Starlet wizards, they'll have the past
Idle brains, just won't last
Falling angels, of the night
The king of terror, will die of fright
We'll pass through liquid fire
And the threshold of desire
[Conquer death, with tears and shame](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-1PEzkw7aE)
Ease the suffering, and kill the pain
Open your eyes, I'll let you see {cite:p}`Smack.1983`.
## [Plan Cochayuyo](https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intervenci%C3%B3n_estadounidense_en_Chile#cite_note-CEDEC3-43)
«Ya es una buena cosa
merecer ultrajes,
privación de libertad,
destierro,
[la palma del martirio...](https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ra%C3%BAl_Hasb%C3%BAn#cite_note-3)
por causa de cristo.
Pero previo a eso,
se necesita ser
prisionero de cristo.
Subyugar,
en santo vasallaje,
la propia libertad
a la libertad y la voluntad
de Jesucristo »{cite:p}`Hasbun.2000`.
## Welfare Cheese
**𝘌𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘪𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴** (*A Dream in Hell*)
1
Beautiful like a baby calf is the song of chicken fried with batter,
the long red and white picnic tablecloth is finer than the finest lady’s legs, the finest thing there is to embark upon a heaping bowl of coleslaw,
shrimp from the gulf coast are delicious, gushing with wine as if feeling,
like honey mussels, in Redmond or Olympia, harvested by fishwives, in the seaweed,
and the glory of banjos in Baton Rouge, their juices course through them like
ageless autumn lemons,
like mom's fragrant pot pie, chocked full of juicy stew, widens the gullet,
and, baked, cries out blooming peach tree blossoms.
2
What would you say to some barbecue ribs, burning hot
grilled on a charcoal fire in June on the banks of a man made lake,
pines or cedar trees that sum up the dramatic atmosphere of a
damp sunset at Lake Lanier or Stone Mountain,
or to a clam chowder, whose name is inextricably related to Manhattan or
Rhode Island or New England?
No, you hunt quail and you grill it, just like you hear honky-tonk or stars and stripes
at the feet of Mount Rushmore, and fried catfish along the Chattahoochee
where it leaps into the sacred sizzling skillet, superbly fine
river fish, makes fishing boats rich while the sisters Lee,
as if in pain, sweat what's human and divine on the grand antique family fiddle.
3
Tremendous turkeys that smell like summer, almost human, autumn shades of
walnut or chestnut, I eat them everywhere, and in D.C. I kiss them,
like the vats where barley sighs like the prettiest girl in Jersey
raising her skirt underneath the lights of the big apple, same
as the roof off of a block party with streamers and flags where we drink in red plastic cups
a substantial whiskey and beer,
or the love mattress, upon which we set sail and sighing face each other and
the night’s tremendous oceans, into whose horrible darkness,
black and tenacious flows the bloody calla lily,
or the teardrop that falls in our moths as we joyfully sing.
4
Napa Valley wine is enormous and dark in the California sunset, and when
it's in your blood, nostalgia
and the apology to heroism sing in the wheels of spurs to
the beast’s hide, dancing to the fundamental tune of backwater rapids
against the frothy red glare.
5
Nicely aged bourbon bellows in its cellars like a great sacred cow,
and St. Louis will be golden, like a rib-eye on the grill, all over
the bloodied paths towards Oklahoma, autumn's
guitar will weep like a soldier's widow,
and we'll remember everything we didn’t do and could have and
should have and wanted to, like a madman
staring down a town's abandoned well,
watching, ear shattering, the engines of youth rev down dawn's
wide gust
crumbling like memories in the abyss.
6
The saddle glows all across the Midwest, mountain range to mountain range, booming like a great combine with its 20 foot span, booming
like a cow auctioneer or a righteous pastor or tornado season,
lasso raised up against the sky
on top of a guffaw, a hyuck or a yeehaw, splashed with sun and hard work, where manure perfumes dung heaps like a domestic god, with tremendous balls like a widow.
7
A mighty log cabin with its open yard, apple trees, front porch
scented with remote antiquity,
where the bootlegger and his still would sing, drop by drop, a sense of eternity into
the water, recalling old ancestors with its tremulous pendulum,
exists, same as in Madison as in Franklin or Fairview or Springfield,
although it’s the little town of Hodgenville Kentucky that most proudly proclaims the wooden troughs or pig iron pots, wide open spaces, the Appalachians, the original wild west, civil war and emancipation, in little log cabins,
from Tennessee to Ohio, who express it proudly in tremendous language, eating ears of pigs eating ears of corn.
8
Because, if it's necessary to stuff yourself with hot dogs in a Detroit Coney before dying,
on a rainy day, blessed with a strawberry milkshake from fresh upstate dairy, and smoke, bathing in conversation, friends and the munchies, launching yourself into terrible leaps and bounds, blubbering, savoring the booming chili in spoonfuls and fries,
it's also necessary to get your meat from the Kansas City stockyards in March, when the pigs
look like televangelists and the televangelists look like swine or hippopotamus,
and wash the food down with some fiery sips from a short glass,
yes... in Dallas or Fort Worth the corn tortillas look like the local ladies: wide white waists and sleepy half moon eyes, since, ticklish and cuddly,
they turn their faces, and let themselves be kissed, unendingly on either end.
9
And the chit'lins, swimming and searing in broth and tabasco, and the cornbread that moaned in broiling bacon fat, is blessed where thunder rolls in wide whips, along the Mississippi,between one drink and the next,
but it never surpasses a gamy partridge, savored in the dry underbrush of July,
in the unforgiving humidity of the season, among campfires and stale Wonder Bread,
fishing in the hunter's cooler for those enormous cans of Miller that smell like
gunpowder and friendship, or the hare, roaming through gardens, agrarian blade of lulled lamenting,
hunted among the saintly corn stalks, like a thief rummaging through the neighboring county, boiled in foaming red wine,
nor the savory morsel of pig knuckles, which should be eaten in Louisiana, after drinking
not vodka with bitter oranges plenty, but rather, drinking sherry from
Baton Rouge.
10
When the ham is mature and salted, by the rainy loneliness of Portland, and turns as
precious golden as a yellow mustang or the beautiful local stripper's tits,
the poem begins in a cloud of smoky spiritual saturation, and thus like the velvety
avocados southwest of the rockies, San Diego, of which it's only possible to savor the
nachos drunk with cheddar and christened with salsa, cooled with a hundred frosty glasses, the fragrant olive is marinated with brine from the Great Salt Lake like the tough and tasty beef jerky for bikers and cowboys is salted and smoked with smoke, but never pine smoke, at the road house by the interstate, where friendly races and jostles arise over a piping cup of diner coffee,
and the pickled bar eggs are searing.
11
In Boston there's a cod soup seasoned so soulfully, that it drags on the
long cocktail, which, like liquid smoke for cold cuts, must be seasoned with
lemons and winter onion sprouts,
all of which, upon the tablecloth, blooms with sourdough bread that's baked, as are
the potatoes and chestnuts, as in Maine, when mussel soup abounds
or fish tacos in L.A. or a Des Moines pork tenderloin sandwich in the middle of summer, or in Olympia geoducks, absolutely geoducks, raw geoducks or grilled on a charcoal grill.
12
However, let's not have oysters in those surroundings, where the fresh grilled salmon that gleams buttery and breaks apart on your fork or the flag that is an incomparable
Pabst Blue Ribbon
let's have them in a ritzy New York City restaurant, with generous and mulled
old amber stock from the grandfatherly vines of the Hudson River Valley, let's eat it thundering and toasting in the heart of the maelstrom,
as if we were about to face the firing squad or hang from the trenches at dawn.
13
And in Arlington every four years or Louisville at Churchill Downs, the mint julep is garnished in cesarean mint leaves, bathed in vestal suds of sugar powder and ice cubes, birthright of all Americans, with bourbon, so much bourbon, as much bourbon as bourbon can ever be considered bourbon, while the presence of Carolina crayfish from Beaufort or Charleston shows off their bloodied sunset
like dusty flecks Hellenic bronze over confederate battlefields.
14
Because in Okeechobee there bear fruit an orange as exquisite as any Sunkist grove in California,the orange that was eaten in the noble plantations of the great funeral plains of eastern Florida, where the hurricanes are like the bull from Texas: the only thing that's really real,
for this reason I prefer the spicy pulled pork in Tallahassee or Mobile or
Pascagoula, gotten from the southern pig, oceanic, fattened by the gulf stream
and a great turkey stew in Natchitoches or the great annual fourth of July barbecue, ribs and steaks roasted on the ember spit, with a side of succotash grown on the back of the titanic Adirondack Appalachian range of the first American Frontier, in Columbus, in Cincinnati, in Chattanooga, Altoona and Saint Louis or on the very shores of the Mississippi river, or in Pensacola upon the fatal gulf of Mexico, jaws of planet earth, like, for example, in Missoula, and still yet in the epic spine of the Rocky Mountains, pantheon of Lewis and Clark.
15
Ah! happy are these who know the gentle caress of a dark skinned woman and the taste of
stuffed jalapeños from New Mexico, or buffalo jerky along I-94, relishing and savoring it like long lasting memories of sex at fifteen,
along the mining hills, among miners, strong and heroic, or reminiscing with the
sacred mules that forged the mining industry,
while two mountain goats on Caribou Mountain merrily enjoy themselves, in the fragrant fabulous embers of the spruces and firs that wave American flags, glorious
like glorious ciders.
16
The wily and boisterous bikers who swear allegiance to Hell's Angels or Phantoms, Bandidos or Outlaws or Iron Horsemen, eat their steak chicken-fried and their beer drought,
leathery skin, half vigilante half criminal, at Daytona bike-week or Biketober, past straight Jacksonville but before Cape Canaveral, shining beacon, showing off in the great American parade tradition of roaring lions, shuddering with the national bellowing of stampedes and internal combustion engines, rumbling
by the courage of the local five-o and the pulsing sun,
and the coke they smuggle, hot, hiding from the ever watching eye of the Law, stabbing or shooting snakes like the appalling religious sacrifice of archaic faith, horrible and bloody,
when nature and blood were gods.
17
If meatloaf stuffed with peas and eggs is preferred, eat it in an Appomattox bed and breakfast, and the a pig-roast is buried in Honolulu and Waikiki or Maui and Oahu too, for the holy labor day weekend, during cloudy days on the mainland, invariably cloudy, while in the 50th state, falling coconuts dangle in the immense Ocean.
18
Singing and drinking, the local civil servants cross unshaven from one eternity to the next visibly choking on strong grain spirits, those yellow, immense, bronze cots that cover the Great Plains of the United States with blue clouds and cherubs
and the southern rap star takes his Crunk Goblet across the Midwest or Dirty South, either in
Chattanooga, in Jackson or in Wichita with me.
19
In Oklahoma, they say that nobody understands how to fry a prime cut of cube steak in a deep fryer, bathed in copious batter and gravy, except real Oklahomans with real Native American blood, and better still the trailblazing-est, most rugged among them,
but folks in Lamesa, if they're proud Texans, refute these claims and add the pinto bean and
the egg white with plenty and abundant taters and lemon,
and loosen their belts to a refreshing Big Red and well salted nuts
from Georgia, downstream Chattahoochee, or with roasted cheese, the kind that
smells like grasslands in Wisconsin, or “home on the range”, sung by a factory worker or custodian turning shifts at Oscar Meyer,
to which the inhabitant of Chicago responds with deep dish pizza and the leftovers from last night's bring your own beer
and immigrant habibis from Dearborn or Patterson with lambs verily stuffed with
rice, onions nuts and raisins roasted on the primal and criminal pyre of May's gaze,
like the embers of all our immigrant ancestors and the first Promethean fires of this world.
20
Lasagna in a can is the helping hand of Chef Boyardee, myth of hangovers and munchies, college dorms, single room swinger apartments and trailer parks, local, urban, rural and provincial, like the universal church of Christ, generous and forgiving,
and the stew with some Bac-o's , or croutons or onions or just rice or noodles, sailors all of them, brothers of the gulf stream gumbo, look like they have great seagulls swimming in the sacred broth, essential and elemental from disheveled fish heads full of meat or a ship of rice and shrimp and unbridled tomato,
more so than the piping jambalaya with smoked sausage, which contains it, but depresses it boiled limp like a poor junkies mind.
21
Sandwiches made with miracle whip, eaten by regular people at work or before school,
manifests itself with soft white bread, thrown together in a hustle, clandestinely, in the kitchenettes of break rooms in offices all over America,
together with boiled eggs, well mashed with salt and pepper, for a smooth egg salad or velvety “American cheese” in individual wraps, grilled on toast, tantamount to the unique grilled cheese sandwich,
on the shores of the imposing Big Gulp with it's fantastic fluid ounces, subject to the
relationship of a Slurpee, that remembers the stainless steel nozzles and thirsty lips
of August,
or between plump breakfast sausages on Amtrak on the morning train and hard boiled eggs f or the road,
and those savory tidbits of coffee and donuts offered by diligent waiter to us,
head to head with the fundamental coast of the Northeast Corridor, it's scent of coastal apples, of old town houses and violets, Winétt, under Providence rain
forever singing and crying,
as we find ourselves completely and utterly alone and sleepless
and the orange bitters with gin, fiendish, demands from us the very most dramatic, the most romantic things from the briny deep on a humble plastic plate.
22
If it were possible, let us serve ourselves hamburgers, nice and hot, nice and juicy, nice and
spicy,
below the the fluorescent lighting, sitting on brightly colored seats, remembering and yearning for the past and badmouthing our family members, cup to cup, refill after refill of that old good Dr. Pepper
and the french fries, outside, drizzling, wearing ponchos, completely soaked, between shakes and guitars, or standing in line behind the local pastor and the beside equal opportunity janitor mopping circles around your feet.
23
I'll have the onion rings please, like a summer tone on a girl's skin, fragrant and comfortable like a widow's thigh, tender like a virgin's milk,
we'll harvest them at The Varsity, old soul kitchen, full of single Georgia Tech girls and, if one being enamored laughs and eats noisily, choose another more melancholy one,
and let's order it with hot dogs and substantial chili that drips all over your white t-shirt collar, in downtown Atlanta or Athens, accompanied by condescending ladies and a tall Varsity Orange, very orange, but more than enough and plenty,
when hopefully we'll be celebrating Martin Luther King day, or, if you prefer, the only other King the south ever had,
and the local girls invite you to rhyme or sing about this and that like a regular new jack on So So Def, for example,
in that case... sing!, sing the new national anthem, proclaiming yourself the baddest and the livest since Slick Rick,
proclaiming yourself the cleanest and the richest most original MC until dawn, when the sirens blaring emergencies sing to the romantic tears of the sunken moon,
we don't remember how we got our pants back on, who drove us home,
or the name of that now drowned bottle.
24
Happy are those who of steaming crab legs ate ten or more pounds,
in the middle of winter in Chesapeake Bay, if the winter is thundering and
criss-crossed by lightning and flooding
and he possesses a great cotton mantle,
with which he wraps around the guitar and the beloved hurdy gurdy.
25
And oh how you throw your hands in the sky,and wave them
from side to side
like flags at a Domincan Day parade, until dusk, if the drink is
strong, if homeboys are are real and not real fake, if
the punch burns your throat and the a beat breaks,
stomping on the gym floor, between heaven and earth,
the boys write the scripture of fundamental manliness in their bumping,
and the girls dance past flirtatiousness in their grinding,
for we've come to San Destin to soak our Spring Break in beer and shots from distilleries in Lawrenceburg or Clermont
or we're making cheer, in local mixers, or on the street,
drifting cars spinning rubber on asphalt, the golden caress of Cadillac plush on the sofa sized love-seats of classic Motown design,
or those vinyl bucket seat imports driven by pompous little dandies.
26
With horse skin stirrups, or cow, supply yourself, rider, with jerky, booze, cards
and smokes (but never chicken, which is for hikers, not
bikers),
supply yourself with provisions in Omaha, some pot and a hip flask
for drinking, because a man who's got his pants on,
traveling on a chopper, won't drink wine neither red, no, nor white but rather neither
and a great swig full of burning scotch,
and he won't dance, because he gets tangled in his bootstraps, if not
after taking off the chaps he wears over his jeans and unbuttoning the rugged leather jacket with six snap buttons and the metal toe boots
of proper chopper faring.
27
Since absolutely all births happen between July, August and September and the celebrations and birthdays and marriages do too, dances, and in general, mixers, family reunions, get-togethers, shindigs
and hootenannies, just like most assholes are named Dick, Karl or Bill,
if you find yourself of unsound body and mind, drink a large swig at dawn and
rub your hands with pleasure,
have yourself some flapjacks with fresh Pillsbury rolls and cold cuts and the syrup, don't pour it not pure, pour it straight on with orange slices of the most bitter and sour quality you can find, naturally from the oldest orange grove in the county,
bathe yourself in rubbing alcohol, bold and strong
and get out there for a roll in the hay one last time before that bald spot turns your back up against eternity and your chest face to face with the heavens.
28
However, with such old and masculine enthusiasm, more or less tongue in
cheek ,
the redneck from Lynchburg or Texarkana is hungover from Saturday for three weeks
and a day, blowing all his money on the “goods” in Cuntersville, so he won't be
accused of being all tutti frutti,
and lies down on some hayloft or dung heap somewhere, snoring,
his last bit of tragic chaw in his pockets, superbly filthy,
in which never did the nation's gold or even nickel once chime its jingle.
29
When it starts to drizzle, dead cows are crying over the cliffs and from
the ravines bellow,
it's exquisite having a cup of Joe and a lox and from embers well toasted bagels,
because when it's pouring rain it's untouchable the buttery baked potato that imposes its
appetizing regime of spirits,
the national song of friendship chatting over a beer and smoking those cigarettes
from last year or the year before, from county to county, in our beautiful
houses, where these days dwell weeds of crabgrass and ivy, rats and the dust of
time, or desperate meth heads,
and still they toss butts and tin foil into the ash,
enumerating all the family dead and into the river with bottles from the lethal hometown
locale, forged by the song of roosters tremendously, eternally,
horribly remote.
30
A fish head stew was once considered natural for enlightening oneself on a Sunday, in any one of our nation's old port slums.
31
It's the apache and the afro-cubano, bloodthirsty and spiritual that bury within
us our enormous dead, inebriating us in ferocious rituals,
if the painful funeral drunkenness results in murder most foul,
and in alcohol and blood the American emboldens his superiority complex of those
immensely huge nations, and his enormous joy so desperate
and trembling, and the trailer trash gobble bellowing, mac and cheese with Pepsi.
32
A toke of lamb's breath from your old school sits nicely on he who embarks by night
upon a Great American Road Trip.
33
When floods and tornadoes devastated them, with the scent of electric tempest,
whipping them with burning branches, mercilessly,
the Midwestern field dwelling farmers weep over their crops with a pot roast
that their women distinguished in the old black earthen pot, between disaster
and their rain soaked rags, which she sunny-sided up with infinite and burning
eggs tremendously fried and from a large onion, sprouts,
eating it with a dagger at his waist and the revolver of catastrophes,
but UFW member, proud and brutish, seasons it with thundering hot sauce, among baskets
and buckets, from his chest, dusty with branches from the grape harvest, and the caress
of the female grape pickers bursting California grapes upon his mustache.
34
If, for example, your relatives have died and your childhood friends and you
return to the terrified and funeral hometown, corner yourself, alone in
loneliness,
eat a bowl of potato stew, the saddest thing there is and lends more loneliness to the soul,
and drink wine coolers, not wine, the painful and terrified wine coolers they'll give to those about to be executed, the jailers or the infamous priest who'll flog him with his bloody bible.
35
Like the most trustworthy red tractor blooms in Peoria, by way of Springfield in Illinois or Springfield Missouri, Springdale, Sioux City, Stockton, Shenandoah,
when the cowboys dressed all dapper in old school fashion, with silver spurs and bolo ties
of formidable resonating buckles and belts, braided in Albuquerque, gallop
through the Elephant Butte reservoir, raising a dusty cataclysm,
the beasts are in the croft and the chief, who ain't no thief, arrives, Mr. Leery
with Gail beside him and his well dressed kids sulking in the back,
and C.J. hits that first swig of punch made with lemons, mixed and
whipped, as is necessary, while the corn on the cob dazzles and
the brats are screaming saintly juices,
gee up! hi-yo silver! ah, ol' mare... ah... ah... the harmonica breaks the Dionysian gallop,
the sky fragrant with resounding hay, laughs like a fat and jolly man by the trampled
wheat, for the world of January is an old King George made up of
catastrophes of wheat and people,
that boom, under the sacred helmets of choppers and the immense day, drink that Wild Turkey and don't choke.
36
Come rodeo time there'll still be some barbecue left and the parking lot will bring from the
dead those lyrics from winter's attic and his guitars and the dream of bones from the times before Plymouth
towards the cherry trees, peach, almond blooming tremendously without shame or prudence,
because of which, cows will have their sexes stung by errant bees
that believed them blossoms and the first rider will enter and his hoofed partner
will play the piano made of guano, dirt and roaring,
because the rodeo finals every year in Las Vegas, packed like a Six Flags or loaded like a wealthy politician, engrossing like the nudity of a soccer mom, sing the same song as a great V-12...
37
When the year is drunk, the fall, the weeds, the bumblebees, the citrus trees,
workers versus employers and the press,
the harvest begins, while office-going America knows nothing about bursting grapes picked from under the sun upon chests, waists, thighs of immigrant girls who'll be on their backs, legs apart, laughing,
while the trucks gasp, resounding downhill
and the foreman beats the branches of the apple tree, imagining his beloved wife and above
the grand arboretum of agave and woods roses or prickly pears,
a stream of tequila screams, burrows below tunnels, screaming,
screaming, like a dying animal, screaming
waves its bull cock at the face of immortality.
38
In Reno or Tucson, if you prefer, for the bull rides in June or July,
the canteens smell like mountains
and the sweat of powerful men, the beasts struggle, tying a knot
against palms and arched hides, arteries bulge, nailed against their throats, in effort tremendously enormous, strangled with desperation and bald eagles,
tense, dramatic, lying in waiting, shoving, grabbing on to the chest plate of battle
until the stellar instant when a horn full of raw grain spirits neighs, with
honeycombs, bolting and roaring like a cougar's beautiful daughter, crowns
with head of one and only one victor,
because the beast, from foam and hallowed victory, will go forth to chew on his bit with
the rodeo clowns, already ornery.
39
Towards the Sunday fair, the Judge and the Mayor drive in tinted windows,
the Priest, the County Sheriff, the Governor, Mr. Hezekiah, Jebediah, Ezequiel, Ebeneezer and Reuben, the Smith, Jones, Dodd, Holt, Taylor, Rivers, Peterson, MacDonald and Lowell ladies, wives and daughters,
because Mrs. Chase's fried chicken shines, like a temple at dusk
in April and Skeeter Wier... no, Donald “Doc” Muller,
just made the first winning toss of the fair, smoking and drinking
(because the county's republican majority handles the horseshoe like the back of their hand) and raise their voices to their talking points, like a dagger that slashes
the local horizon or like a honeycomb buzzing like the backs of
negro slaves
or like the flags of Juñy, making the provincial epic shudder, the
small-time hustler, grandiosely verbose and retired, from the families of
wedding and birthday photographs,
and a rooster's song highlights the down-home heroism of banjos that could outperform any big-city orchestra
40
Let's eat shrimp grilled at the edge of the brazier, if the tempest unleashed
roars dragging its chains along the Atlantic's
abysses and in the great oceanic sea, drinking beer drenched,
but, with much care to drink plenty of it, pale white lager, in a
mug, with the hound at my heels,
telling of how we bumped into the devil, in the old town of Salem,
face to face, and how we pistol whipped him something fierce in his maw that
the stench of sulfur was so strong in Northampton, they were sneezing
in Syracuse.
41
When a “christian soul” dies in the Snake River Plain, the first thing that should be done
is drink a very tall glass of sun kissed wine,
and send the family a fine young calf for the funeral service, go visit
the dearly departed's buds and start drinking and drinking for the deceased,
sigh while watching the house's sad beams, drinking
to the health of the widow and the children, to times past and the memories
more aged than aged wine, to the grandmother, drinking
to all the place's dead, yearning for them, from one drink to the next.
42
The large mouth bass of the Mississippi isn't a fish, its a twenty
or thirty or forty inch empire,
to which only roasted trout from the Lakeland in Minnesota find
their rhyme,
for this let us sing to Mr. Joe Senser the colossal hymn of
Joe Senser Sports Grill n' Bar, of BBQ burgers and drink to the memory of twin cities.
43
The homeless' oil drum fire weeps, by way of Staten Island, in New York,
along Jefferson Ave, take the South Ferry to Wall Street, up to the East Village, across Broadway to Chelsea leading towards Hell's Kitchen's soup kitchens serving it timeless yet chained, like our heroic veterans,
a mainstay for the night-owl and the drifter, tends to make the mouths of steel livered winos
water,
spicy and fragrant with onions, American as the immense night of the Great Depression of the American Stock Market, the educated man's casino,
and his starving yell stirs the grimy fog like a great black sheet.
44
First we prepare a kind of pot in the bloodied earth of the orange
courtyard,
we reheat with canelo wood fire and burning stones,
making it beautiful with nalca leaves like we would a naked and happy girl, at
which singing we throw mussels, partridges, abalones, pig's heads,
rib-eye from oxen and calves, ducks, turkeys, geese, longanizas, cheese,
testicles, sea bass and sardines, sealing it and kissing it like a
vat of sweet must, placing upon it a large king crab over its mouth
and like a Christmas bonus inviting the people of La Cisterna to the curanto, we
start drinking until tears and “el mucho grande lloro”.
45
The sweet and aptly named Crunk Juice and the imperial and wintry Old Fashioned, heady
and smelling of old gardens, or Bloody Mary in the morning,
oh how they come to console those pale and distressed souls and even more to resuscitate
the dead, authentic and terrible dead,
when the poet finds himself among friends, car dealers, help-desk attendants,
auto workers, butchers or elementary school teachers completely utterly
confident about good drinking, over there by way of Minneapolis,
the I-35 bridge has fallen from the tremendous load of traffic
and you resign yourself to soaking your guts all week in Owatonna, before catching a
cold from frozen bowels.
46
I reckon that bird stew requires those proud and sun kissed ingredients
of coastal towns,
the wide white tablecloth and the great and definitive curved flask, that goes back
to the copious times of gangs and prohibition's abundance and whose volume,
as if clinging to melancholy autumns, reminds us of the lady's forty-some abortions.
47
If you're carrying much sadness and little money,
have yourself a lemon rind tea with brandy and wrap yourself up like a fuck-wit
because it must be winter,
or a little mulled McCormick vodka and a lemon slice,
since it's also pretty good just having it pure, drunk with rolled cigarettes,
strolling along the empty halls of your home
or one with tomato or rosemary or grapefruit or olive, no sweets whatsoever, dry and manly, like the winter's loneliness.
48
Thrusting sun through every pore of summer, sweating like galloped linebacker
from sea to shining sea, crackling
gold dust, corn on the cob, corn dogs, cornbread, caramel corn, corn flakes and corn pops, high fructose corn syrup, bourbon, pop corn and cracker jacks and creamed corn real and real American,
which is distinguished distantly when the first season's ciders and the first
fallen leaves greet the first stew of September with a great sea oyster.
49
Only Mercy Adams, for a thousand miles all around,
is capable of roasting some tender chickens, with asparagus of summer time blues
and red red wine and mushrooms,
and Juan Carrasco, from El Paso, those tortillas or tacos that
grow so big
stuffed in winter's shawl, accompanied with onion clandestinely sprouted
and the olive recent or absent, tasted divine,
savored in wine
when cats on the rooftop tiles play their wet fiddle,
warm the little ladies in the pink bed, who moan and sigh too much
and plenty
on caressing their own beauties.
50
Yes, have yourselves a dark coffee for breakfast, Irish though, saying: “what's up with the
weather, like it's raining but it isn't”,
take a drink, like you weren't watching the clouds the eagle unravels, in
relation to a sad laziness that workers understand in absent
laments,
after having been ruminating and bellowing.
51
Laid down, in the middle of summer, bloated from enormous red Kool-Aid,
the watermelon opens up, like a honey with no drawers,
so we can eat it in the shade of porches from L.A. or Montgomery,
and everything is huffing, boistering, sweating and revving up your ride that tumbles and screeches
thunders in the mississippi delta where
the concave pot is cooking giant hot tamales fom a hundred hot and humid river towns.
52
Like potatoes baked in the embers of the enormous crime of friction,
fried in bacon fat pork rinds and the rib eye in wood fire, with its rosemary regalia
and summer shrimps, in the hot and leaden dusks of
Corpus Christi or Chalmette or Chula Vista,
and the marrow floating in the broth of chickens raised by unstoppable industry.
53
Hot wine turns even more heroic at the dawn of the dance, tightens
the shoelaces,
and behaves like a great campfire in the american wilderness,
let us drink it, we, the old farts, remembering the good ol' days of yesteryear,
remembering the braided hair, remembering the women we mounted
when we were unbridled bachelors and aimed our cannons
against all things in this world,
reveling in finding ourselves spiffy and in being the epic ruff riders
of way back when...
54
Roasted, the chestnut lends great and heroic intimacy to the chimney,
recalls the partridge hunts and the scream of the timeless coyote in the gullies and ravines
jagged from the storms, and it's marvelous to
soften its bite with Dominican liquor.
55
The wise old night invites you to swell your spirit in beer and cider, by those superb rims you saw on the television,
in that enormous novelty mug from Señor Frogs when you were young and in Mexico,
when, through suburban drives, little Ramon's Jetta would come down, roaring
among the exhaust's epic thunder with Ramoncito, a modern day indentured dropout and doormat, steady at the wheel,
and New Orleans was hoisted on rooftops on account of far too muchery, on the shores of
hell's abyss, which collapsed, time and heaven below, in a
ferocious train-wreck catastrophe from the fright of cyclones.
56
And puff your leaf cigarette, strolling,
when the fog drags along, herding its immense black sheep
down missuh Esop's alley.
57
Like the king crab with herring and Alan Greenspan bring the entire horrid abyss to
the shores or our plates roaring lonesome ocean,
you have to be wary of the waves, holding on to the vertical mast of the Constitution that
the illustrious forefathers drafted drinking tea and smoking Carolina tobacco, among pale and salty tears of rye,
while the tremendous soldiers rubbed alcohol on their wounds, sitting on beds of ice as calm currents move beneath them like the unstoppable wind,
not drinking, but drowning in beer and rum that, when poked with red hot irons, screams star spangled banners.
58
Or, like kidney beans with rice or black eyed peas and potatoes, grits and creamed corn or oh that po' boy eaten while eating, gulping underneath the yoke of welfare cheese...{cite:p}`Amena.2009`