Thursday, January 13, 2011

Juan Miguel Padilla

The ogress retted her feet, tethering the corresponding foot to the analogous ankle. ‘Una tumba sin nombre, beneath my feet’ said the ogress pointing at a mound of fly-thick manure. Digging with her fingernails the ogress scraped shovelfuls of fly-thick manure hoping to find the missing whore’s glove. ‘he assured me it was buried here, in this very spot’. The ogress tilted her head and crowed like a rooster in a cockfight. ‘god’s awful god-awful hole! It’ll take all night!’ A burdel of whores sashayed into the streets, each wearing identical red supper gloves. The lamplighter, wick-lighter in hand, jumped from atop his ladder, the clang-clank of steel and knuckles filling the night with a tinny pitch. ‘look out’ shouted the alms man. ‘they’ll run you over’. The lamplighter threw himself like a dog hit by a truck into the Seder grocer’s window, the glass mizzling into a thousand pieces. ‘what next; the sky falling?’ said the alms man raising himself up on the heels of his hands like a sideshow contortionist. Neck boils. Get all roughed up in shirt collars. Hurst like the devil.

The following Juan’s are known to have been in possession, at one time or the other, of a red whore’s glove: Juan Alvarado, Juan Miguel Padilla, don Juan Tenorio, Juan Bautista, Juan McQueen, Juan Carlos Salazar and Aguja Juan Rodriquez. Like a dog hit by a truck the lamplighter rolled along the cobbles hollering. ‘for the love of Jehovah what next; the sky falling? The moons of her fingernails eclipsed by manure, the ogress continued to dig, the smell of salt-rub reddening her cheeks. Poldy, his shoelace, the aglet crumbed like a sawed-off stump, threaded through the wrong eyelet, watched from his perch above the overlord’s banquet, all of the fat people cramped under a small disc-shaped tent, the fattest pushing his way forward hoping to be the first to be fed. Under the disc-shaped tent, surrounded by fat people gnawing and chomping, a cockfight was going on; guts and quills flying everywhere. A potpie chicken fought a barnyard rooster. The crowd jeering and hooting, the barnyard rooster pinning the potpie chicken to the sawdust floor.

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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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