Saturday, July 23, 2005

(a post by roger)
Buenos Aires. July, 2005

We take enormous walks through bird-plenty parks.
We pretend not to confuse ourselves in language. We teach eachother. We compete. We hike the crooked sooty canyons of Congreso and Once and rumble through old underground rollercoasters. We drink. We attempt to adapt.

This city pulls people to it like it draws water, it breathes electricity, it exhales diesel clouds.

It is a whirlpool. Those who try to climb out of it are devoured by its center.
We walk the turbulent rings. We genuflect. We proccess.
Whoever contemplates the city too much loses it. Who maps it does not enjoy it.

Like throwing water at water.

The city tortures people with its almost visible faces.
The people torture eachother, unmasked.

A woman screams.
A woman scratches at the unswept skin of the city.
She wants everyone to scratch, "for honesty!" she cries.

But it is only the noise of a bird-plenty park.
Nothing is revealed.


The city at night is older.
Fallen, warring gods inhabit the bodies of stray mutts. Some exhale fire from their snouts.
Others seep blood.

Their wars are our wars. Who sees it?

A large dark dog finds clean water and drinks his fill. Later, strengthened, he drags in the sorrowful corpses of rotting companions to sour the spring.

A fallen angel lowers her whiskers to the bloody pool.
Pawing the rust-colored water she sees reflected the no-longer brilliant blanket of stars.

Her ribs rise weakly. She sighs.
With a glance upward she willfully drinks the water.
We here a whimper.

A stark shadow greedily runs off stage, into the clouded night.


Poor Pirate Dog sees a different city. He travels by rooftop, descending only to sabotage his foes.

He senses history in everyone and everything. This is his gift.
His foes are marked by their past actions. He has many, many foes.

With the strong breath of the inspired poor and the vigorously pirate-like, poordog sniffs out greed faster than a scream can become a birdsong.
And he smells it everywhere.

Greed, to this dog, is a negative complacency. A horrible sin.

Still, greed is taught by the greedier -- and though they too have learned the greed they teach, their sin is worse.
They are the "worst perpetuators."

He calls them such when he sees them:

"thou, worst perpetuator..."

But poordog can't read minds, he only has the past to work from. To him, action is law. All religious conversions and spiritual awakenings, all great intentions - are null.
You could just have promised to yourself and God to do only Good for the rest of your life. And maybe you even mean it.
But if, when Poor Pirate Dog finds you, you haven't acted on your intentions, you will be extinguished.

With the same foreordination that makes Poor Pirate Dog move via rooftop -- occupy a different space, he is blind in one eye.

This eye, if it could see, would allow poordog empathy - and empathy would prohibit him from vanquishing his foes.

His empathetic eye was dismissed by his stray-bitch mother in her last act of creation.
An Andean cur of pirate descent (though she never knew it) the forces of breeding collaborated within her and she acted.
She tore into her own pup's eye to make him see.
Poor Pirate Dog is a creature of fortune.

Most often, when you look at poordog, you don't see a dog, you see a statue.
It is a form he can always take and has always taken.

Late one recent night, a delirious begger fed a one-eyed dog-statue a strong Coca-leaf broth,
and poordog awakened.

He licked the man, winked and then returned to statueesque.
The man placed his hand on the hard metal body of the magical canine with reverence.

Inside his iron cast, poordog felt a prescience.
He had found his partner, finally.

And finally, for the first time in the annals of our history, a man and Poor Pirate Dog had united. A link had been established between two worlds.
It was one of those fortuitous and neccessary steps. For without that alliance, there would be no one left to tell poordog's sad and savage tale.

And now, hesitantly, I reveal it. I am that begger. . .

Alas poor Dog, fate has chosen a woeful beggar to appeal your case. May his tongue sooth with mellifluence; may fate be moved by his honeyed succour. Soccoro! Soccoro! Peace be unto Dog.
And on the other side another

The kiddy pools are full of so much pretentious sow’s blood

He might not fit the ride
But he would make a good penguin

Junky Politics
On the airwaves

Walking thru
Liberty Park on the 25th day of artillery fire


Oh the cops chasing the brown family

Pushing me over with
All that baggage in my ear

The labor force
The caterpillars

The lost kiddy pool
Is so much

The dogs
At the imprisoned flamin goes

Yes like the rest
We are too muffin
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