Quivering with a thousand fires of darkness...
It's rare, but for our dreams, that DonKay dances cheek-to-cheek with the stars. Rarer still that we're able to find any such occasion when we or our contributors have covered ourselves in glory -- or even wispy shreds of dignity -- in our brief brush with la fama. So we normally despise that type of shit, if only to save ourselves from embarrassment. But these arable archivist lands yield the odd paradigmatic peach, sweet and juicy like yam sugar. And we like to share. Gemelo Hernandez was one of 40,000 or so Puerto Ricans living in New York City's Spanish Harlem, circa 1930, but the first one on our shop rolls who submitted in the language of his newly chosen land. Federico García Lorca, a poet, lived across town for about 9 months.
He also, we believe, gave Gemelo the sheaves of rice paper upon which his entries were written, here excerpted. And this was after FGL called New York, "Senegal, with machines."
Was yesterday that Señor came down to the basement to leave me his hamburguesa for lunch. He says that they disgust him, at any time of day. Maybe it is the pickles. I do not know what he is eating instead. Maybe he eats just the salad. Again, I do not know for sure. Luz is very disappointed. It is like being slapped in the face finding a meal that has only been disordered, she says.
I was not there to receive it from him. When I returned from the waxing of the floor of the ballroom, there was only the cold beef and a note, "Para Ti, Niño." I did not eat the sandwich right away, but I hid it in the back of Luz's re-frigerator for when I become hungry tomorrow. That is after I have cleaned the stairs, which takes many hours of the afternoon.
Señor tells me that I remind him of a friend of his from España. I do not know who he is talking about, though. He tells me that is why he is in search of me all of the time when I am at work in the building. To bring him home, away, he says. I do not think he likes it en la Casa very much. Also he asks much about Puerto Rico. So I tell him what I know. But I do not know how he can write if he does not eat and spends all his time looking for the janitor.
He also, we believe, gave Gemelo the sheaves of rice paper upon which his entries were written, here excerpted. And this was after FGL called New York, "Senegal, with machines."
Was yesterday that Señor came down to the basement to leave me his hamburguesa for lunch. He says that they disgust him, at any time of day. Maybe it is the pickles. I do not know what he is eating instead. Maybe he eats just the salad. Again, I do not know for sure. Luz is very disappointed. It is like being slapped in the face finding a meal that has only been disordered, she says.
I was not there to receive it from him. When I returned from the waxing of the floor of the ballroom, there was only the cold beef and a note, "Para Ti, Niño." I did not eat the sandwich right away, but I hid it in the back of Luz's re-frigerator for when I become hungry tomorrow. That is after I have cleaned the stairs, which takes many hours of the afternoon.
Señor tells me that I remind him of a friend of his from España. I do not know who he is talking about, though. He tells me that is why he is in search of me all of the time when I am at work in the building. To bring him home, away, he says. I do not think he likes it en la Casa very much. Also he asks much about Puerto Rico. So I tell him what I know. But I do not know how he can write if he does not eat and spends all his time looking for the janitor.
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 6:20 PM
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