Saturday, June 27, 2009

Los Prostitutas Bariloche

Holding his head high he marched into the day wishing. He wished he lived in Anpolis Goias or Amersfoort Utrecht, or Malopolskie, a tiny village just outside Cracow, or maybe Comunidad in the deep green forests of Valenciana Valencia where the sky is blue all day long, or nearly.

He wished he’d never wished anything at all. Turtle-like he espied the man coming down the sideways, his shell a shiny Kopek. The Daguerréotype Lewkowicz Porto, not having a Kopek to his name, lived in the henhouse behind the Wool Merchant’s estate. His coveralls smeared with black silver and unctuous chemicals Lewkowicz Porto developed portraits for the Wool Merchant; photos of the merchant’s children and wife, wide-lens shots of his property and adjoining houses, the henhouse far enough out of the frame to insure a minimum of indignity. Los prostitutas bariloche sang to the fat people standing in line waiting for the doors to the Church of the Perpetual Sinner to open.

The muleteer beat the animal to the ground, tearing the bit from its mouth. Watching, his eyes smarting like bee stings, the alms man felt his heart break in half. The animal lay on its side, a coil of intestine spilling onto the street.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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