Blog of literary hijinks and the dudnering whirl of expatriotic vitriole.


Old man sells candied-peanuts singing “five for one peso”
He may or may not have a beard and dark eyes
And the strap around his loppy neck
might just as easily be rainbow as solid grey
But for sure, there is an armpit-charred undershirt, greasy suspenders
Ballooning his pants, a decrepit clown

The dangling children, known locally for their frank cruelty,
Tug at his clown pants, though he does not lash about in anger as they briefly flee
Like a swarm of flies, having long ago discovered the Lord of the Cathedral, as the pigeons fly from him and it
Like a poet rushing into a room full of pigeons

His candied peanuts spill onto the squares of the plaza
Gathering up the treasures, grubby little mouths stuff themselves laughing
Their importunate mothers scald them, demanding the digesting smiles return
But quickly, readily give up, make the sign of the cross instead