The Portrait of W.S. ((Raison d'être) (reason to be))

((Raison d'être) (reason to be))

The Portrait of W.S.


Chapter One

You could barely at times, during the onset, stand the crying, the noise the razor-strip made across his back, I speak of those who could hear the slashing and echo the thin leather strip strap made; it was made for sharpening a razor not for whippings. Those in the extended family, learned to acquire deaf ears while the old man was in his mood, the neighbors in the summer with their windows down, open to the air, could hear, they also learned to tolerate the ongoing affair, calling it a ‘slight disturbance’; perhaps the truth, the whole truth, was, they were getting accustomed to it, thus in such a process one minimizes, if not completely putting it into a dead chamber of ones mind—you know what I mean, the old saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Something likes that. No one knew what the reasons were for his beatings, why he battered with the razor strap W.S., perhaps not even the old man knew why he did, what he did, nonetheless, he did it.
His wife, the old man’s wife, W.S. ’s mother, had been dead now for some years, double pneumonia—the Minnesota winters can be hard on ones body, and it was on her’s—she gave the old man eight children to raise though, perchance that played a role in why the old man chose W.S., to take out his frustrations on; sometimes we do that, pick out a certain individual, person—save we don’t take it out on all—to displace our anger (and yes, anger can come out sideways, if it is not directed toward the reason and person one is angry at, in many ways, as I mentioned before, frustration being a lighter form of anger, like trying to push a door open and someone is behind it as a counter weight pushing it in the opposite direction, thus comes the anger, the frustration the irritation in life, it comes from not being able to open the door), and now that his wife was dead, his help mate, and not being able to speak English well, being from Russia, and having the children at hand, working two jobs, W.S., was his release.
In the cellar, where he kept his pigeons, he raised a horde of them, that is where he took W.S., quietly down a wooden flight of stairs, pulling him by one ear, stretching it out as if he wanted to pull it off, yet he didn’t allow himself the pleasure, lest he be considered inhuman, a beast, and he assured himself that—he was not.
He had him lay over the edge of a table, shirt off, pants down, and he whipped him, upper legs, buttocks, lower and upper back and across the spine, up to his lower part of his shoulders, but not on exposed areas, only areas that he would cover up later with his cloths.
The rhythm of the leather razor strip, rapidity went smoothly across those exposed areas, almost spaced perfectly in time, as if he was playing a piano in 4/4 time, from one to the next hack, as if he had it tuned perfectly, that being his arms reached the proper distance with the wave of the strap, and the slap of it on flesh, to produce little red marks, on his pink flesh, but not cutting him. He endured these beatings several times a year, for years…


(Interlude) We look for reasons why people do what they do, sometimes, when we can’t find them, it simply comes under, reason to being, a motive for existence. Perhaps the old man knew, things give in, fall apart, and he could (as in his homeland of Russia), they always have, like the falling stars, the shooting astounds in the night sky, fall, never to be seen again (he was sending money home to his mother, now in Warsaw, and he’d never see her again, and his father who fell off a roof in Russia, he’d never return) possibly he felt he was in a strange sea, and if he stopped doing what he was doing, he’d fall off that same roof, or disappear like the asteroids, the falling stars, he was as if sanding under a lit lantern, tied to a mast, and forgot what happiness was, and when things don’t work out as you plan, where was he to go, he didn’t read, study the news per se, he didn’t drink much, he couldn’t go back home, to Russia, had he done that, it would have been like jumping back into the depths of the sea. Consequently, W.S., was his discharge, his savior, his way to get back to sanity.

and he who beat the strap so cunningly, from years of practice now, being 82-years old, looked everyday of his age. His legs were beginning to become wobbly, unbalanced, and weak in strength and endurance. His thin straight hair, lay flat on his balding head, and his dark eyebrows, once bushy, now were thinning out, like loose threads, just lying dormant almost to his eyelashes, with no flexibility to bring them back up to life. His forehead extended backwards, as if it was a receding glacier, unrelenting and soon to be completely balled. His eyes were being pushed back farther into his eye-sockets, and the sockets were deeper and wider than they had ever been, almost as if they were tapped onto the skull itself by a hammer—, spot-welded on for survival sake, like a tapered pair of pants, then ironed onto the skull. His eyes had dark pinholes for irises, thinner than a ghost’s mist. He was shockingly cadaverous looking in posture and looks.
W.S., didn’t know his father’s daytime hopes and aspirations, other than they were most likely connected to his insomnia, and for each person, it is different, it comes in essence, in a different package, not sure if any one person knows the other person that well to figure out that package but between he and his father it was an ever widening interval, and perhaps his troubles commenced with the war, scarcely did he talk about it, and when he did, he got deeply engrossed, as if awakened from or into a nightmare, pin-pricked in the finger (often times we think we know the other person, only to find out later one, we have simple reviewed our own personal suspicions of the other person, something W.S., never did), and those nights, the ones where prior that day he talked about the war, he, W.S., would end up usually,
flipping on the bedroom light, as his father would be uttering something (something haunting), and a wild scream would follow, as if he was charging, devouring the man in front of him, and after that he was very, very tired, and W.S., would walk him back to his bed, in the morning never knowing a thing about anything the previous night, he though, the old man thought, he was in a total sleep, never figuring out, the intermittent horrors—of his sleep-walking; such an undertaking, interlocking circumstance, for W.S., yet, they generally seemed thin to him, diminished in force and urgency, and viewed in his mind more as a coincident for a lighter subject: conceivably more on the order of ills of an old man’s functioning body.
On the other hand, W.S., was sympathetic to his father’s ill and eternal quivering in the bed, trying to get to sleep, again imagining but not quite honoring his imagination for realism, he thought the war might have stayed with him, the Civil War, and those great battles he talked about, to the point of bringing him to the edge of an abyss, and should he fall face first, forward and viciously down into that abyss, an endless grimy tragedy was waiting, he saw his demons there, singing him a lullaby, and their only wish was to enfold him into their nightmare.

But the old man was aging, his skin starting to sag; forearms were forming lasting wrinkles, muscle tone deflated, and the muscles knotting up from lack of use, and over use, and outstretched skin. And those once thick Russian bones were now bending, he lost height, none that he could really afford to lose, he was only five-footed two inches tall to begin with. Even his silver watch, around his wrist left a thick impression in his flesh when he took it off at night, twice as deep as it was a few years back, and the watch, was dulling as was his skin tone.
“Oh yes,” he yelped, as he punished rapidly with his descending whip and thrust of the strap on the back of W.S., muttered something (with the eyes of five-thousand hungry dogs) and the old man said,
“Oh no, I know you did!”
Ah, W.S., muttered something back, and the old man said,
“Oh no, I know you did,” and caught his breath, then added “I’ll take the devil out of you yet!”
But W.S., would not disclose his sisters name, the one he did this and that with, his so called sidekick, and had he disclosed here name, I doubt, the old man would have done anything about it anyhow, he would have blamed W.S., for leading her astray; thus, whipping him more, and at the same time, wiping her soul clean, sanctifying her by proxy. Sometimes W.S., and his sister, the third of the eight in age, would run off and into the city, returning late, or not returning until the next day—this was a peeve with the old man, amongst other things.




Chapter Two

The old man cursed worse than a dying warlock, he had a hard time with the English language, but not with the English cursing words. It was as if some evil spirit cast a spell upon him, during his voyage over from Europe, to New York City.
The old man had run away from home when he was only ten-years old, a stowaway on a ship, it was 1864, when he arrived in the United States, and somehow found himself in a war between the states at eleven years old. Thereafter, in 1866, he found his way to St. Paul, Minnesota, along the Mississippi, making his way up from New Orleans and St. Louis. What happened in-between, was all hearsay, the old man was never that coherent to put the pieces back together for anyone to create a complete and finished story out of those years.
But getting back to W.S., he simply endured like a dutiful and proud son he was, from a stock of Russian and Polish descendents, his grandmother being of that second order.


The father, the old man that is, shameless in his degraded anger, buried a lovely and church going wife, a woman of some breeding, a second wife that is, he had ridded himself of a previous wife, whom he had no children with, and was only married a short time to in comparison to his second wife, whom the first was nothing less than a drunk. He had kicked her out of the house, and went looking for a new one; almost as if it was a commodity he was looking for.
After his wife had died, he had gathered most of her things, so many things, of fifteen years of buying, and therefore he had only the things around him he was fond of, which was to the old man very edifying, a black mantle clock, a picture of him and his wife by the clock in the living room, and in his bedroom a medal from the Army he was given. He had very few impressive photographs of old, but the one he had, he’d look at very preciously, of course at this point and time, it was late in life for him. Hidden in his sofa chair W.S., had found one some pornographic black and white pictures, photographs of a young woman, she looked familiar, from up the block, W.S., put them back in the same location, it was a shame he thought, he had even found them. He looked already as a man on his death bed, yet he’d live longer, W.S., knew this and was hopeful he did, such folks always do, it seems, it is as if God himself, is giving them an extra chance to repent. He had kindness in him, otherwise he’d not have raised eight kids, save for it was simply kindness stretched out ineffectual. All in all, he had the good taste, not to marry a third time, lest he endure more frustration, anger, and dissatisfaction, and that would just not do.
The woes of so many people, in his life haunted him—W.S., was sure of that, from Russia to the Civil War, to his first drunken wife, and then onto his beautiful beloved second wife, and her death, as if this was some theatrical introduction to a classic drama to be played out on state, so W.S., often would ponder on, undertook to reissue his old thoughts and collect his new ones. He was always trying to figure out what made the old man tick.

•

There was at this time, the neighbours who honourable stood by staring out their windows, laughing at the cries of the boy, as if ready to applaud, if only they had an actual eyeful of the subdued in their mist. This was never on his mind though, the old man was many things, but he was not trying to feed the pleasures of others, but most frequently did, in his underground hush-hush, and these cries were of course prior to the boy’s teens, once he reached the adolescent state, he never cried again, matte of fact, he was taller than the old man, and stronger.
Oh yes, W.S., endured and even murmured to his father as he was being beat on his 15th birthday, the old man breathless,
“Take me to the shed pa, so the neighbour’s won’t hear and say bad things about you.”
But the old man never paused to listen, and therefore, the beatings remained in the cellar.
W.S., made no attempts to run away, not for good anyhow, he and his sister E.S., were tied together like Amos and Andy on the Radio broadcast they had weekly, they were sidekicks, sort of, but too often this gave the old man more reason to beat W.S., to punish him, to slash him with the leather strap, and listen to the blows, but now with no tears, or cries, silent was his victim, and accordingly, much of the pleasure dissolved.

About this time, 1940, the boy being seventeen-years old now, the old man asked W.S., “Vhy yo no cry?” (The old man now 93-years old)
The old man was exhausted from giving W.S., a beating, he even dropped the leather strap to the floor, his fingers stiff, didn’t even feel the leather fall out of his grips. He then caught his breath back, shook his head.
“It doesn’t hurt that much any more father,” said W.S., the old man had lost his strength, his ability to put that much force into the wave of the leather strap, and half the slashes, hit the table, not the boy, his aim was off, his balance was terrible, he almost fell on top of the boy.

This day, the old man stood stone-still, looked about, he was disorientated, couldn’t figure out exactly where he was. So much anger, so much death in the back of his head, swollen skies, not much life, he murmured, “…everythin’ goin’ to hell…!”
He was dizzy; his head felt like it was crashing, like thunder falling from eardrum to eardrum. W.S., helped his father to sit down in a chair nearby, then halfway down—bending his knees, he stood straight up, pushed the chair away from him, now regaining his strength.

The boy, if anything was very proud of his father, proud he had fought in the Civil War, to him a hero, and W.S., being the last, and youngest of the eight children, born in 1923, having missed the great War, told his father, “Pa, I’m going to enlist in the Army, I want to fight in this new war in Europe.”
That was the last of his beatings that day, he’d never get another.
The boy smiled when he told his father his ambition, and for the first time in his life, he smiled back. Matter of fact, he would comment to his neighbours in due time, of his boys intentions which would be reality in a matter of month.

As W.S., stood there, waiting to get a second beating, thinking his father was going to give him a second beating, now that he had his strength back, and especially for talking back to him, the old man simply turned about, walked quietly up the old wooden stairs, mumbling and swearing, but proudly this time.


Chapter Three


The boy knew, it was hard for his father to live amongst the herd (society), where there was more wolves than lambs—and his communicational skills were dull at best, and that the wolves get hungry and have to eat, and we cannot stray too far off, lest, finding the lambs may eat us also. He had no special gospel to teach his children such things, or the words, he knew they had to learn this on their own, let us assume, he didn’t like it, or half didn’t like it, having to teach them, having no teaching skills, and if the leather strap helped teach W.S., how terrible his father could be, then how bad could the wolves be, or even the lambs. He was somewhat relieved when he was told W.S., was going into the Army, this would be his teacher.
For himself, he was a man wrapped up some, with domestic rats, his ways were cut from an old carpet you might say, and in a few months his boy would be gone. “How strange,” he mumbled as he often did, “I didn’t suspect it,” he uttered to the mirror as he walked by his black mantle clock, looking at Ella, his wife; seeing how old and ugly he had turned into, all those 90-plus years weighing on him.
Once there was a whole lot of him, by and by it disappeared, like his sleep was doing, if anything, to want for sleep, and not have it, and to be in bed, and sleep not, was his worse curse you might say.
He loved Ella, she was the only perfectly respectable girl in his life, no matter how long she lived, she would never leave his mind, well I suppose it isn’t quite true, Oh-h-h! he found that one young girl, some thirty-years younger than he, up the block, the one W.S., found the photos of, and he W.S., had talked once to the girl, visited her one afternoon, who introduced him to her three children, and when he left, she said in passing, quietly,
“Your father bought me this house, and these children, belong to him.”
He never mentioned it to anyone, it was as if he got slapped in the face, but then each man must live his own life.
She had said to him, as he sat in the kitchen listening to her,
“I’m giving a dinner tonight, I want you to come.”
But he refused, nicely. Not so much because he wanted to, nor was he trying to be rude, he just felt out of place,
“Look me up in the future,” she said. But he never would.

•

That summer was a hot moist summer, 1940, the air with gossiping with mosquitoes, and the mosquitoes were attacking every living thing, and the thunderstorms brought bitterness to two cities, of St. Paul, and Minneapolis, destroying homes in the countryside, and folks slept outside on the grass it got so hot, foreheads sweating, people dying of heatstroke, it was the summer W.S., would join the Army.
If W.S., was angry at his father, it was because he would not let him love him, nothing else, matter of fact, E.S., often asked,
“Why aren’t you a bit heated at father, I don’t understand, he never treated you fairly?”
He couldn’t answer that question, he didn’t know the answer, but E.S., understood, with his staring eyes of forgiveness; to E.S., it was like the old man poured black rain on him, and the more he poured the more bright he became, he wanted if anything, W.S., wanted for his father that is, happiness, something he lost along the way of life.
E.S., was no longer a woman servant either, as many were in those far-off wondrous days, she had worked for four-years as a servant (as her other sisters had off and on) in a household, living at home when she could, and staying in the master’s household, with their children, and cleaning, and so forth, when they needed her, she had been paid very little, but was fed, and clothed, and that helped her father out.
Now she was going to go work for the munitions plant, they were hiring. Thus, things were chaining for all.
In the old man’s household, there was neither frost nor famine, per se, he was a hard worker, a painter of houses, buildings, and half owned a restaurant on Wabasha Street, in St. Paul, there he made his Russian stews, and so forth. His job paid him well, and he took on some side jobs, that paid him cash in silver dollars. And he worked up to the last three years of his life.
This was indeed a changing summer for everyone, for E.S., and his sidekick sister, E.S., and the oldest sister had gotten married, Ann, and even for the old man, he was making more money from the restaurant than he expected, and now on Social Security, as he must have thought, ‘why now, why at the end of my life do I get what I really don’t need, success, I should have got it back when…?’
And it came to pass, W.S., departed for the Army, and would spend most of his time near and at the end of the war, in Florence, Italy.



Chapter Four

No matter which way one thinks of it, W.S., had inherited from someone, perhaps his mother, the character in large degree, namely, patience, call it a virtue. Having said that, he received in the five-years he was in the military, or near five-years, the rank of Sergeant. By and large, he was a sharp trooper, and all who knew him liked him, he was the driver for a Colonial.
On occasion, he conservatively sent home some money to help feed the extended family, his father now slightly ill, and unable to work at his restaurant.

The war was a pale mooned war, for W.S., he dreamed on, and of the summer he had with is family, that being, 1940, the one he had spent with his sisters, and father. It was the summer he was treated as an equal by his father, or at least, he put a light in his eye.
On the other hand, the war grew faint the first few years, it would sweep over though…and he’d find some shade by a tree in the afternoons, and dream about going home with his uniform on, and standing proudly by his father, as if to be among men, gods and ghosts.
During the last days of the war, he got to see the gorgeous Vatican, sharp against the night light of the moon; he listened to the organs tremble during the day, and loitered through the corridors thereafter.
From the moment when, as a young boy, handsome, he’d gaze out of his bedroom window into the imaginary future, as if he had an audience, watching his progress, he imagined he was in some kind of accidental glamorous life, and it was just that now, he felt he was almost a star, in the cinema, but he wanted to go home and see his pa, that took precedence.

•

Upon W.S.’s return home from the war, 1945, he found his father in his sofa chair dead, neck stretched and head lying against the back of the chair.
W.S., stood in shock, his mouth open, wide open, his uniform on, his brass shinned, his heart pressing against the walls of his inner being, he gasped for air—he noticed he was thin, too thin, but no pain on his face, he was 98-years old, he held a letter in his right hand, which laid across his lap, it had the insignia of the Army on it, he had received it a few hours earlier, it was now 11:00 a.m., June 16, 1945.
W.S., felt his father’s arms, his blood was still warm, he took the letter, it had his name on it, he seen from the side of his eye, at a glace, as he scanned his father’s body, tears rolling down his cheeks as if a lock from the Panama Canal had been opened, and a flood of water was being released, he saw the part of the letter that read, “…killed in action, in Italy, May 29, 1945.”
Today would be the second time in W.S.’s life he’d notice a smile on his father’s face. A withered smile, but a smile nonetheless.
‘God had been kind,’ murmured, W.S., he died with little to no pain, and he died thinking his son was a hero, like him; that was the happiness he could not give him directly, but somehow his father got it indirectly. For once in his life, he pleased his father; and if there was anything analogous to this, it was just that, the letter indicated he died in some great battle, likened to the ones he must have saw, and maybe even partook in, he was quite young in the Civil War years.
Had he knew, the old man known, W.S., was a Colonel’s driver, things might not have been so spectacular for the old man, at that vital moment, he might have died from a heart attack because his son was no more than a driver. Even if it wasn’t true, and it wasn’t true indeed, W.S., was no hero of that sort, although, had he been given the chance, he may have been: in any case, he filled his father’s expectations, by another man’s death.


Written throughout the day, 12-20-2009, Lima, Peru

The Days (Tribute to Juan parra del Riego)

I

All year, knowing you’re dead,
I’ve sat in two hard-pillowed chairs,
Looking out the windows, being sad
With human melancholy, trying to restart
Those days in which you lived your poetry—
(in translating, editing, and selecting your best),
Days when your youth like mine, felt the sun
Carried ambition, from earth to sky,
Ominous days, with inspiration to share;
I live them now, but feel yours in death.

II

Today, is like any day, I suppose
As you once knew, expected death,
As I do now. The sky is overcast,
(I hear the shuddering rain, the splash
As cars drive by, their engines alive)—
And in the dash, like a river off-course, now
This is my moment when air
Being most full of life and images,
Appears lifeless, no motion, now:
Land, river and sky, we merge, the
Splash is gone. And so is my sadness.
Everything is drowned out of me, but you
(so I can write this poetic tribute).
My memories emerge (with them), I’ve found
The days you lived, the key to your poetry;
The secret closet you hid as a poet.

III

I think of all you did, when you lived
(That is, all you wrote, and might have wrote
And done before death undid you…despair)
There was much promise in your youthful
Years--your wild reserve, the color of autumn leaves
In your Face, inspiring the wind, and woods
And the bare silence in the hummingbirds.

None had such promise then, not even
Cesar Vallejo, or Borges, not even Yeats,
Or Keats, Georg Trakl, or Pablo Neruda.
Your rhythm and rhyme, scapegrace charm,
Pattern and structure of sound, verse and meter,
Accentual-syllabic line, all gave motion
As if glazed in rain, falling hard to soft…with
Disarming grace, yes, oh yes, you were bold,
As Homer, building a wooden horse
To Deceive and then destroy Troy!
In the Age of Symbolism and Modernism.

It was, was it not, in your luckless blood?
That failure came only because all passion
Was taken away in mid-course? By Death!
You shrank to nothingness, but still you
Wrote your poetry, an hour before your death!
You lived beyond the gloomy boredom of regret.
You did not deject any love, the beat of your heart,
Was for Blanca Luz Brum, no cold fortune…

Your slow death, shaped your stare upon life
There was blood within that sightless stare,
But it made you one, made you look and wrote
Your poetry in stone, at the end, alone…

IV

Your poetry has outlived you, and that sightless stare.
Your poetry Parra, has outlive that boat you rowed—
So long ago, in Montevideo and it will
Out live the painting that hung in your room
Where you sat by a table— the ultimate last hours
Before your death (with Blanca Luz and an amigo)…

I see the grief upon her youthful face, drunk
With loss, seeking some oblivious place, to hid in
Desolation, despondency, mouth open as if in horror,
Eyes staring, for the haunted hour is near, harrowing
Face, full of disgrace…for being helpless!
She holds hard onto her chair, legs half crossed,
Breathing slowly, she knows soon, what she must endure.

V

Blanca and Juan’s amigo, stood by him the hour
Of his humiliation, yet he did not turn upon them
In the last hours of the night—they in a sad self-
Loathing, Juan, concealing nothing,
He heard Blanch cry, “I am lost. But you are worse!”
Perhaps the dying do not own to their dominance.
But this night, the lights were lowered,
It was the later hour,
And then the lights went out,

then the dissipation of the night passed…

Everybody worn-out, utter destitution
And the two now knew, the world deprived!

VI

Knowing, and having heard, read the bare fact
Of your death, the word lingers in my head--
Death in that haughty room,
Shut tight, from sky and cloud,
Only silent thoughts, cast from
Moment to moment, to illume later on
With those loved ones by your side
...

The hours you and I have now known,
Even though you’ve been dead over eighty-years,
Neither denounces my poem, tribute for you,
Nor pardons, my words, if they offend…
Like you, I have seen the moon’s light, glide
Upon, and over the sea’s tide, and the waves
Lost on the sandy shore, as they recede never
To succumb to them even when the dark has come;
I hope I am strong as you (when my death comes),
Although I cannot promise what I cannot give…

and now to your Surpassed fame, O’dark!
you have turned into light!


Written 12-24-2008 (Morning); Huancayo, Peru, No: 2533

Voyage of the Confucius Priest (Short Story, Revised)

Voyage
Of the Confucius Priest
(A Short History of the Augusto Peñaloza family)



The Voyage

An hour after dark, when the seven young men, no older than 19-years of age (including the young Confucius, temple priest, Yang, whom was broad at the shoulders, narrow eyes, perhaps five-foot eight inches all, one-hundred and forty-pounds, short dark hair, deep dark colored eyes, flat at the stomach, and short neck, rounded chin, straight nose, his skin more bronze than fair to pale) squatting down, each carrying a light blanket, Yang with a lit lantern in addition. (It was Saturday night. They just said their prayers in the temple, heard the foot-steps of the night watchman go by, and watched him from the temple window climb up the ladder, as he checked the rooftops of the houses, then they didn’t see him anymore, thus, the other six poured themselves some rice wine, drank it down hurriedly, to settle their nerves, Yang, pulled out a coin from his pocket, the wooden floor below his feet made a cracking sound as he moved them, interrupted the other six young men, “Three minutes,” a voice said, “and the guard will take his ten-minute break,” a break he was allowed to use for eating, “we’ll go then,” continued the voice.
As a result, all seven were compelled to wait, as they silently, disclaimed China’s ownership of them, then up some stairs they went, to a trap door that led out onto the roof of the temple, climbed along its edge, descended beyond the fortress walls, squatting against the wall and with no sound save the steady movement of feet, they made their way to the Yangtze River. There inside the boat called a ‘Junk’, they sailed, and ten hours later—suddenly—the first appearance since the seven had vanished, the captain of the boat, threw water on the stinking seven, to clean them, several buckets of cold November water. The owner of the boat just looked at them, like he had never seen them before, it was more than that, and it was like he never wanted to remember them once they were gone.
They had no money to speak of (especially for passage), and so payment would be, to allow the owner to sell them into slavery.
From the belly of the Junk below, the men themselves could not hear or listen to what was happening on the upper level, the only other level of the vessel, hence, everything remained unchanged within the bowels of the Junk, dirtier than a fox’s hole, and as dark, though not as demanding and punishing as their previous lives would have seen. The cheap imitation of freedom, bagged up in the jackets of the appointed men in charge of the providence, the fortress, the temple, life could be no worse as a slave.
Squatting on the ship’s floor, beneath the galley above (this was 1869, Yang now 19-years old, an odd year, all the young men had been defeated and forgotten, what would be the difference—so they felt—to belong to the lowest bidder in Argentina, Buenos Aires (by way of Ushuaia), where the next ship would take them, merely a like candidate for freedom someday, which was all that they hoped for, a chance, outside of a dotting country of dictators, away from fences they could not go behind, and bridges they could not cross, and flanks they were forbidden to go near, they were just fading leaves on tress—to be incriminated at any time by the wealthy, empowered, given warnings: with no head to their pleas and cries.)

There they were, just squatting (thinking about their servitude to be, the voyage, what they had gone through, the escape itself came back to their minds, the bequeath of freedom, Yang gave to them, handed down to them, something they’d all forget in a moment time for a long, very long time, but for some it would resurface), not doing nothing, not a thing but thinking, nobody bothering them, until the ship stopped, and they boarded the second ship, and then, there they were near a month at sea, and another benediction: whereupon they were awoken from their sleep, from the straw thick floor, used as their living quarters, where they ate, and drank out of water buckets, had one blanket each, and had one lantern between them, it was Sunday morning—and all their dreaming and all their thinking faded.


To the Bequeathed
(Remember while on the Ship, and about to disembark)

Before the night watchmen had finished with his evening meal, Yang and his followers, comrades were gone, yet quick as they left that morning, so affected the whole temple site, as well as the nearby village, most knew by mid-afternoon, all knew by sundown—every inlet and penniless village, the region knew the young priest, the king-priest to be, disappeared, was out of sight.
The officials had only to wait (so they thought), and he’d return, hence, to bide until that delivery moment, so they claimed. He had been running away mainly because of being unveiled as a heretic, that what he preached was not the true side of religion that his building was full of sacrilegious figures, and therefore he feared for his life.

It was asked among his followers, “What did he see, as he stood gazing so many nights out his temple windows…?”
It was said he saw the future, the near future, that a vision appeared to him, of soldiers coming breaking down the temple, the idols, ripping down the tapestry, he saw a new China on the rise, and he knew he would have to escape, lest he be tortured and killed (so he re-dreamed as he sat on the floor of the vessel, dreamed on his trip down the Yangtze River, toward Shanghai, to board another ship, that would take them out of China, into the waters of the Pacific).
Looking out that temple window, he heard a voice; it even seemed to smile as it wept: “Do not put your trust into man, but let him trust you, he is inconsistent, as the waves you will be on soon, a fugitive of God, he remains, this is the course of most men, the cling to wealth, squeeze out the life sap of the seeker—be him poet, priest, or philosopher—the sap of the soul, like a juicy plant, and they leave it rot once its life substance is gone.
“The good rulers do not war against nor punish his country men, as if they were the common enemy, who punishes for lack of opportunity: he, the bad ruler is responsible and thus, sets the trap for his people.”

(So many things he thought in those hours and days at sea.) It was in those days in China, he saw tourists flock into its country from India and Europe, Buddhist Monks arrived in great numbers, and had its share of Missionaries preaching Zoroastrianism, Christianity, yet, Yang remained as an Confucian. And along with his followers, Li, Ming, Ho, and the others, gazed out the windows of the temple, gazed at the Great White Star (Venus), and in the evenings, under candle light, read the books of Confucius.
And he wrote on the temple wall before he left, “How many times must China die and reborn before she finds order and peace, for now all she offers is chaos and balances herself with dictatorships.”




Counting the Cost
Argentina and the Farm


(In 1870, Yang was sold the Peñaloza Family, Buenos Aires, whereupon he inherited their name, and was given a first name, according to Latin American soundings, now called Manuel Peñaloza--the year being 1870. Because of trouble and strife, and the Peñaloza family, being in politics, and the son being killed for his beliefs, the head of the household of the Peñaloza family, being superstitious, and feeling Manuel gave them bad luck, he was set free, in 1888: thereafter marrying Nieves, in 1889)


The two folks, Yang (now Manuel Peñaloza) and his wife Nieves, could hardly support themselves, working on a farm outside of the city, likely not getting much more than their board and lodging, the family that was trying to live on the farm were also poor folks, thus, a childless couple, one of middle age, two of misfortune, drawn together as if by some mutual last resort, here they lived in a one room cabin, more like a kind of shed, clinging onto life, on a farm with a straggling one-hundred acres of corn, incredible to say the least, with its heart-breaking labor, this he come to acknowledge this life would not reward his sweat he was giving, but merely eat away at his flesh, a man who at one time was called the young king-priest, of the temple, a hero to his followers who for so long, walked in solitary and alone, yet he still shed a magnificent giant shadow.

But here they lived nonetheless, for near two years, splitting firewood, hoeing the hard and tilted ground, planting the corn resting on Sunday afternoons, in his clean but faded trousers; and to that they gave thanks for the strong heart they were give by God. This was the time he learned about Christianity, having checked the doctrine out, read the gospels, memorized the ten-commandments, he had learned during his bondage, the Spanish language, perhaps better than the average college bound Argentinean. And consequently, watched the people preach the word of God, and then violate them, then he was gone, it was 1891.


Killing Man’s Meat


(Manuel’s wife, gave birth to a male child in 1891, naming him Fidel) (The boy growing several inches shorter than his father, and growing a thin goatee at a young age. He took up carpentry, and in 1915, they all moved to Lima, Peru whereupon he married Juana, in 1919 (whom he met in Huancayo, Peru, where he bought lands and would stay for a lengthily period before moving back to Lima).


And so it was, Manuel and his wife, took their grown boy, Fidel, in the year, 1915, to Lima, Peru, had said a prayer for them the night before, and told Nieves: this was the last journey, now being, sixty-five years of age, for each journey was unto itself a battle.
“What,” his wife said, once in Lima, he had mumbled something to himself,
“It took me sixty-five years to get to where I might find freedom, I still have my Confucius roots, and now Christianity, it will be Christmas soon, we walked a long way, time to stop and find a job,” but what he didn’t say and wanted to say, perhaps was: I really know nothing but how to preach, although he had done several other things along his life’s journey, he’d ended up doing no trade, and there wasn’t any money except just what he needed to feed his family, to save ones meat from rotting, he went after ideals, and found words, and only a single coin in his pocket at the end of it, but he fed the family. When he was young he thought different, his aim was different, but not long after the voyage that all changed, now in Lima, a long journey he had learned only what was right and wrong, what was sin, the very things he knew before he left China, the very things he taught his son, the very things he went over and over and over, how man kills his own meat.

(In 1921, Augusto Peñaloza was born to Fidel, and in 1923, had a daughter, Christina. Fidel died in 1971. In 1957, Augusto’s wife, Maria, gave birth to Minerva and Rosa (Maria died in 2001); in 1959; Minerva, giving birth to Ximena, in 1993, and in 2007, the family found out, they were partly ChineseJ)






Notes: Taken from actual events. Names and dates are as close to the truth as the author can fix; some parts historical fiction; written from notes taken over a conversation between author and Augusto Peñaloza, 10-4-2008, at the café ‘Mia Mamma,’ in El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru. Copyright©2008, by Dennis L. Siluk

The Voyage, and Proceeding History, written, 10-4-2008; The Escape, The Vision, the Interlude, written 10-6-2008; Farming, Farming II, and Christ, Killing Man’s Meet, written, the morning of October 8, 2008.

Jaipur, India: Under the Boiling Moon (April, 1998)

(The Sleepers)


It was a still night, in Jaipur. No clocks ticking,
it is close to two in the morning. The sound of crickets,
dogs guarding, sleepers snoring, sleeping on cots
by the streets outside the hotel: half naked
light blankets over their lower bodies and heads;
dogs nearby, itching, lightly barking, no one wakes,
a hundred people under the boiling moon,
they have no sense of time, just bull snorts,
and dogs barking, of course. I’m the only one
babbling to myself in this empty night, watching
tranquil sleepers—breath in and breath out.

—I walk by them, three dogs corner me,
they look hungry, stained somehow,
with bitter mouths, saliva dribbling, their eyes
starving to attack, yet they hold back.
I’m sweating, my teeth grinding, and my belly’s tight;
the old Hindu by the hotel, the guard, he hears
the excitement in the dark, he’s coming, running
I have rocks in my hands, and so does he.
Crash! Crash! I throw, and he throws, its
sufficient to scare the dogs off. ((I have pain in my
kidney.) We, we finish up, at a Hindu shrine,
I’m thanking God, for his immortality
(had it not been, that he was on hand,
I’m not sure what then.)(I’m thankful for
The old Hindu Guard…! That he was alarmed.))

I’m not sure what the old Hindu man was saying,
but was doing what was doing, bowing, praying
and praising…!

#2287 ((1:59 AM)(2-27-2008)) Mark Twain once said in so many words: India was a most beautiful place, it is like a circus. I agree it is most beautiful, during the day, try the late hours of night 2:30 AM (or is it the wee hours of the morning), in any case, it is a different world then. In Agra, in the late night, cows and folks sleep on the streets, as they do in Jaipur, as in Delhi, women and children eat out of garbage piles by the hotels. Thus, things are not so beautiful, unless you hide inside the hotel, or go with the flow, on the tourist bus.

Under the boiling moon, are memories of India in general, a trip the author took in 1998, and would leave the hotels in the middle of the night to walk among the city, hire a bodyguard, that was more scared then he, and walked the streets at 2:30 AM. Talk to the people, drink some black tea, get sick, and go on and do it the next day again.

Four Poems: Vanity, Madness, Lazyness & Death

The Hornet’s Vanity

Ev’
poet,
ev’
writer,
ev’
singer,
ev’
artist,
has an immortality box—,
one as big as their coffin.
Here is where they lay-way
their past, present, for the
future…;
after they’re gone.
After the aspiration bird
has flew the cope, and they died,
(left them to rot as maggots
in there sarcophagus).

Even after death the:
poet,
writer,
singer,
and artist,
want to fly into the hands
of the mortal living
(dive like an eagle).

He dreams he is painted
on the walls of caves
(not yet discovered);
painted on canvas,
written in a book,
detailed in a poem,
made into a statue,
itched on street signs,
when in essence,
he’ll never know;
oh, yes, he wants to be
on coins also, and stamps
(like kings and presidents)—;
and he hopes to change
the world before he dies,
he wants to be known
that he came, he was,
once alive.

Where in the world
did he get such a notion?
Perhaps the bird is not
a bird…but a hornet
with big wings,
and a big silent sting!


#2294 (2-28-2008)
Written today at Starbucks, in Circle
In Lima, Peru (300 PM)



12


Lazy Boy


A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung,
the longer you hold on it, the more it
smells; the more it smells, the more
people end up looking at you, as if its
yours.

#2296 (2-28-2008)











13



Madness

My madness is under my scalp—;
if I had a wig, I’d have no trouble
getting rid of it….
I thought about laying in the snow
and freezing my madness:
and my wife said that was, “Insane…!”

O, I am empty for any more ideas,
witless, clueless!
Meanwhile, I simply endure, —
and point my finger, middle finger,
every which way.


#2295 (2-28-2008)



When I’m Dead

When I’m dead I’ll ask the Lord
if I can come back for a spell,
to make sure my wife, Rosa
is well…and I’m sure
He’ll say yes; and
to let her know,
she can go
on with
life…
I’ll see her later
beyond the tunnel's light.


#2297 ((11:30 PM)(2-28-2008))
Written at home, in Lima Peru, 11:30 PM

The Bulls of Hemingway (a poem)

10


The Bulls of Hemingway

Roses are not always red, especially, if you have someone
else paint them blue. And sometimes it is better left un-
said: who is the hero of the bullring!

O yes my friend, bulls and bullfighters, are not always art-
less, especially when you celebrate them, with brass bands
and balloons.

Bulls and balloons, bulls and balloons, and Hemingway,
whom is for the bull or the matador, how much bull can he
feed us? I’m for the hero, whoever it may be, who puts
on the best show, man or beast, or neither.

The bull stands ready to charge, and the matador is saying:
go, go go, I’m ready. Hence, the bull gives him his horn in
his rib, and he flies in the air, falls on his butt, and the matador
goes: shit, shit, shit…I missed. And then someone comes and
takes his place, the bull is now tired, thought he had a chance,
and the bull goes: shit, shit, shit, and gets stuck with the sword
several times through his hump (between his neck and spine)
and whose the hero?

In such cases like this, there are no heroes, and thus, I’d prefer
the painted blue rose, instead—why waste my time.


#2289 (2-27-2008)

Augsburg's Pig Alley (#7, Poem)

7

Augsburg’s Pig Alley

In Augsburg, West Germany, in 1970—
I went to Pig Alley, to visit the whorehouse
(more like a four story building, with a fence
at the end of he alley, to a dead-end).
Bristly faces, and youthful naked bodies
all about… on the second floor me and
my Army friends, scored…dirty hides, raw:
gray, cold, ready to ride, or be ridden.

#2293/ 2-27-2008; from the MS "Ten-Drooled and Slobbering
Poems of: Dennis L. Siluk"

The Drooled and Slobbering Poems of D.L. Siluk (poems one and two of ten)

Ten-Drooled and Slobbering
Poems of:
Dennis L. Siluk


1

The Siluk’s Lament
(for: Hemingway)

I know E. Hemingway masturbated
in the mornings…;
that his pet cat screwed the dog
that some bulls kick and fart
and yet
what can I do…
it all seems so crappy normal?

#2287 ((2-27-2008)(written at Starbucks, in Circle, Lima, Peru))




2


Hemingway’s Best


He tried to spit out the truth,
from a salivating mouth—;
in the end, he drooled
and slobbered,
lies: from feet to chin.

#2288 (2-27-2008)

Disappeared (Poetic Prose)

Disappeared
(Poetic Prose)


Part I
The Gratitude


I thought how good a student I was in the past, not sure anymore;
I’ve liked money and material things, in my life, perhaps too much
to a certain degree, that is, I have thrown them to the wind, also.
I believe in an afterlife, God, and all those things (Jesus).
I am a saved person, from the grips of Hell, I believe, but wonder
at times, how scattered are my sins? (Afraid God will see too many).
I am a little famous, not much, and my writings have done mankind
some good, not sure how greatly.
I feel lazy, and lucky, in my old age, that I don’t have to sell brooms
walking around my neighborhood, in Lima, Peru.
And that I don’t have to live in a hut, along the Rimac Rio; nor that I
have to sell cigarettes and telephone cards on street corners.
I can eat at the cafes almost any days…! In all, I’ve learned, it will
not be me, who changes the world, although a noble ambition; so
enjoy it while you can, but don’t hurt anyone in the process.
I even got a bald spot in the back of my head, now at sixty-years old;
it’s a telegram, I believe, telling everybody the comic truth of life,
Dennis L. Siluk is getting old, aging, not a bad thing, I’m surprised
I made it this far in life; and I am thankful for my glasses, my books,
my homes in Peru, my wife, the chicken farmers, and the sound
of the cows, I like steak (beef steak); and sleep, a God given gift.


Part II
The Dream


I dreamt last night, a friend and I (not ever seeing the face of the friend),
walked around a lake (I think we were in Minnesota), and we talked,
talked on how we might be, could be, better husbands, there was
apprehension in his eyes, I didn’t see his eyes, I felt them. And so, we
both decided to bring this bit of information up to our wives, and we
did just that; he to his wife, me to my wife (the following day).
Meeting the day after, to compare notes, on how our wives
responded to our declaration (not that we were bad husbands in
the beginning for we were to the contrary, good husbands).
Hence forward, he explained to me: I lost my wife in telling her this.
He was dumfounded, how could this be, he simply wanted to be a
better husband, not lose a wife in the process, he was hurt.
My general thoughts were, he lived in a poor kingdom, and thus, I
shifted my pillow back and forth, in hopes to fall back to sleep, and try to change my dream, to have it come out right for my friend; I think
I actually was inquiring in my mind on how to change things, trying
to backtrack, you could say, but I had already lived the dream (?) for there was, no going back. So I sat upon the edge of my bed, upright,
and asked myself: what did you learn from this dream?


Part III
The Message


Had he not (my friend) asked his wife what he asked her, he
would have lived in her secret, unknowing her pulse, in
the marriage, the one she did not want (some folks are
willing of course to live in a dead marriage; life beyond being
too fearful, thus for the sake of it they remain in it).
Through this awakening his wife crawled out from under her
pretense, it was now all out in the open, on the table.
The second question I asked myself was: how long could such a
marriage be sustained? (for me my wife had responded positively,
and I was as happy as a bear with a pool of honey under my feet.
With that same question came: how many more years would have been
fritter away, had he not asked this question? Five, six or seven?
To her perhaps, she was in jail, and the next step for her was to live
a life of immorality, or bury pretense, and face truth. Maybe
they both received a gift, a second chance before the grave.


Part IV
New World in the Making


My old world doesn’t exist anymore; a highway has been build over it,
a parking lot is where our old house use to be—everything
has changed, but the names remain the same, of the streets.
Even the old steel mill has gone, with the old ma and pa, grocery
stories; the train tracks are rusting, everything disappearing,
everything, and, soon me!

#2286/2-26-2008

Kenyans Hope (a poem)

Kenyans Hope

Memory droops among the Kenyans
for faces ponder a vanished peace;
a dream that wonders in the breeze,
an anger that remains in hidden faces.

#2286 2-23-2008

Ghost Town ((I Once Lived There)(a poem))

Ghost Town (I Once Lived There)

I was once, like an old empty
ghost town; I alone, lingered in it,
as its guest—no warmth or light,
or life, just dust and death, and cold
ruin’d bricks, some stone and wood…
cold and ruin’d— but God let me live in it.
My throat got choked from the slum; iron
rimed wooden wheel tracks, once roamed there,
now left in the mud; somehow there’s a
friendly gloom about all this, so oozing with
joy over despair, in the chilled air.
Yes, oh yes, I once lived there.

#2285 (2-22-2008)

An Afternoon with Rosa on the Roof (a poem)

An Afternoon with Rosa on the Roof

We sat free, three hours or so, together
(how long, I’m not sure) underneath an umbrella
that sizzled still, in the unruffled warm winded weather,
stirr’d by the sun’s beams, sole offer for the wind;

we sat, she dreamt, I read, those hours together
fill’d with the calm silence of the sky:
the gardens moaned for us in the gentle weather
we found no need to speak, just motionless love.

Now evening, that afternoon seems forgotten
cast out to sea, as if it was out of life, memory;
the calm motionless love, now swooned (faint):
sweet scarcity, we shall remember this afternoon.

As Rosa slept, I looked at her, friend from friend,
sidekick, and wife, deep minutes, hasting …
she in the silent distance, somewhere, —me, in
some irresistible melancholy of the sun:

so I welcomed in that calm silence, as one—
our minds, hearts and souls, in reverie
lost in the vast minutes of time, voiceless,
stirr’d by the sun’s beams, sole offer for the wind.


#2284 2-22-2008; written in Lima, Peru, after enjoying a lunch, a good nap, a good read under an umbrella, under the sun, on top of the roof of our home. We ate pork, with beans, and noodles with chili hamburger sauce, and a dark cookie, and a three shot latte, with orange juice. We ate, on a glass table, a few books to my side resting on a stool, to read after lunch. A few lovers were in the park across the street, one laying his head into the lap of his queen. The sun was over head, going west out towards the ocean.

Note #2: I don't usually write about my wife, unless it is hidden within my words, but here is a poem of a nice warm afternoon with my wife, to have a good wife is a gift from God, so many are worthless, lazy, and not worth the words. Ive been married four times, I know what I'm talking about. A good woman is worth her weight in gold. A bad one, is worth going to hell for, to get away from her. dlsiluk

Mecca's Cry: The Year of Sorrow ((from the 'Muhammad Papers')(Ltr. 9))

Letter IX

Mecca’s Cry: the Year of Sorrow

(As remembered from the mouth of Moss the Prophet))


His heart beat like the sea
his anger was as if he had bees in his mouth;
Mecca became a dead city
after he killed them all
(10,000-soldiers strong, he conquered
them, butchered, like hogs).
The flies had a feast…, for
they tore open their bellies like beasts!
Their heads severed, rolled off,
down the streets—;
they would not listen,
they would not stop
they simply killed and killed,
as if, in a death dance.

#2271/2-16-2008 (10:50 PM)

"The Coffin Makers" (Poem, from the: Muhammad Papers)(Ltr. 4)

Letter: IV


The Coffin Makers

(Revelation given to Moss from Michael)


What Moss saw in the far off days?

We are Islam.
We are the coffin makers.
We are Death.
We hate Jews and Christians;
we pack them in carts
like potatoes.
The body fires like stars:
we use children,
women and the insane.
We are to them,
their savior.
We are the death makers.
We are Islam.
We have credentials.


#2263/2-16-2008

The Battle of Badr (a Poem, from the 'Muhammad Papers,' Ltr. #3)

Letter: III



The Battle of Badr

(A Revelation from the angel Uriel to Moss)


There will be blood in the sand tonight—
Like gravy over meat,
Dead bodies eating soil, vultures chewing
Hearts from corpuses’
Eyes plucked out, of their sockets, like
Candles in a twist—
And I see Muhammad hiding in a cave,
Safe, watching all this;
Yesterday, he walked tall, like a peacock,
Among men of the world;
Today, he’s evasive, hiding behind shadows,
Like a frightened little girl.


#2262/ 2-16-2008

Poetic Epigrams for January 2008

The Log and Slack

The Log went down the river
and there I saw Slack, he remained behind;
but it was effort that pushed Log along
as it was inertia that held Slack back.
The Log pushed on, even with the undertow,
Slack, waited for an accident to happen,
one that never showed.

The Log and Slack, rested and relaxed
each on the opposite ends of the river,
but it was only Log who conquered death,
through reproduction, leaving something
behind; Slack, decayed, left nothing back!...

#2159 1-17-2008


Soul of a Nation

When the soul of a nation is tired,
so you can see it in its agriculture.
I see this as plain as the nose
on my face, in buildings and even
in cars— throughout America,
build in the 1960s and ‘70s…;
go to Havana, it is all pre-1959
and beautiful…

#2160 1-17-2008


Atoms Everywhere

Atoms
space
and law,
we all crawl
down this highway
under the umbrella
of evolution,
only to find,
dissolution
everywhere

#2158 1-17-2008






On the Edge

We think nowadays
or at least I think we think,
it is not conceivable to think,
that it is not possible to live with
apathy, or indifference, or coldness.
Especially when pleasure is at
everyone’s finger tips.
Thus, pleasure (which is not
by all means, happiness)
is the only legitimate end in life;
and, a conceivable action—;
let me add to that
self interests.

In the end, the soul seeks
tranquility (believe it or not),
not coldness, nor pleasure,
tranquility, I say, and I say
it for a good reason,
the mind must rest,
the soul knows this…
and thus one ends up
on the narrow edge of apathy
and tranquility; hence,
the soul remains disturbed,
until you pick one,
and if you pick the
wrong one, there is
no peace.

#2157 1-17-2008 Note: I say to those, who have a disturbing life, do your soul a favor, if not your friends, loved ones and self, go find tranquility, do what you must to find it, you will put on an extra 7-years of life to your existence (forget the cost, just do it).

Mystery at Augsburg Cemetary ((Reedited)(in English and Spanish))

Mystery at Augsburg Cemetery
(West Germany, 1970)



—Our mouths met, in a long, loving kiss. It was sunrise—, the time I figured she’d tell me about the mystery of why she walked through the Cemetery all the time. Her name was Sarah McCarthy, or so she said her name was.
She had taken the dirt path into the old cemetery to meet me, we walked through the cemetery leaving the footpath behind us, walking now on the tall grass, it was quieter she said.
“I love you very much Ted!” the statement came quickly to my ears, filling me with joy:
“I love you, my husband! Always think of me!”
—I rested well, this night. I had gone to bed early after Sarah left for her house and me to my apartment. I got up at daybreak and after my morning push-ups, and coffee, rode off on my bicycle, back to the cemetery to meet Sarah. There like always I left my bicycle, behind one of the big Jewish monuments by the brook that went through the graveyard; without more ado, I looked about for her. It was quite early and I could not spot the caretaker, or watchers of the cemetery anyplace, or at least they were no place visible. I repeat, with apprehension, I saw Sarah coming from the other end of the cemetery. She was walking, without a veil. Down the path she continued in a state of dishevelment, or so it looked from where I was. As I looked over and about the tall grass, it was quite evident—something had passed here before hand, before my arrival.
In spite of my concern, I was overjoyed to see Sarah, I got the feeling there was a trap in progress though. Call it intuition, or momentary second sight, but I got the chills for some reason or another—up and down my spine.
As she neared me, moment by moment I found my affection growing; we had only been married for a week or so, and had only known one another a month, or less. I saw her clap her hands with delight at seeing me, making a smile as she neared me perhaps three-hundred feet away.
In the mist of her walking, thus she stopped. A dim light shadow came upon her face—paleness, dread; and her brows went up. While she was standing, a fear grew upon me, lest being so far away and yet so close (nothing I could say or do), might her enemies be nearby—came to mind. She saw my distress, with a slow movement of her right hand—, quick like a woman’s wit, she signaled me to stay put, not to move. I heard her say:
“Don’t be freighted for me, dear.”
I was in the military, in Augsburg, Germany, a Buck Sergeant, living off base, on the German economy. She was a German Jew, and in the mist of my thoughts, I seem to have been frozen physically for an instant.
(I’d find out later, she was a spy, gathering bits and pieces of information, seemingly not much, but blueprints of worthless items to see if she could get away with it; kind of a priming I think for bigger things for the future. I was not part of her spy plan; I just got connected through lust, interest, attraction, and so forth, and then came marriage of course.)
She then said, as three men came out of nowhere simultaneously, backs to me—she had evidently seen them:
“These are men I need to talk to! They don’t wish to get hold of you, but want to only to talk to me for five-minutes”—lacking due respect for whomever they were, I started to leap forward with a stretched out leg, but stopped, and did as she wished. I would learn they were some kind of Secret Agents. (I would never find out though, from what governments: American, German or Russian.)
—That morning my heart beat heavily, as I saw the backs of these three men walking with Sarah across the tall grass of the cemetery towards a side entrance. I began to follow, but she insisted I give up such a notion (in part), as she turned about a few times to see if I was following. Thus, I stopped for a moment, but started back up again, slowly pacing behind her. Their path lead up to a car parked along side the cemetery waiting, and that was the last time I saw her, and the beginning of a long investigation.

Notes: The author was in Augsburg, Germany in 1970; at a time when many things were happening along the East German boarders and throughout West Germany. It was not uncommon for spies to be drinking beer with the GI’s at the American Hotel in Augsburg (from all three countries mentioned in the story); at the hotel, the bar was in the basement, and across the street was a military compound; where the 1/36 Artillery was stationed. Even the press snooped about trying to find out who was who during these times, at that bar. Thus, from these happenings, and a cemetery I did go to, and a girl I did date, who was a German Jew, so came forth this story. And perhaps, the more I think about it, it could be more truth then fiction (the girls real name was Chris Steward, whom died of Leukemia.)

Written: 7/29/05


In Spanish


Misterio del Cementerio
(Augsburg, Alemania, 1970)

Translated by Nancy Peñaloza

-Nuestras bocas se encontraron, en un largo beso amoroso. Esto era al amanecer-, el tiempo que yo creí que ella me diría sobre el misterio de por qué ella anduvo por el cementerio todo el tiempo. Su nombre era Sarah McCarthy, o así fue como ella dijo llamarse.
Ella había tomado el camino no asfaltado dentro del viejo cementerio para encontrarme, nosotros anduvimos a través del cementerio dejando el sendero detrás de nosotros, caminando ahora sobre el alto follaje, estaba mas tranquilo, ella dijo:
“Te amo mucho Eduardo” la declaración vino rápidamente a mis oídos, sintiéndome contento: “Te amo mi esposo. ¡Piensa siempre en mi!”
He descansado bien, esta noche. Me había acostado temprano después de que Sarah. Fue a su casa y yo a mi apartamento, me levanté al amanecer y después de mis empujes de mañana y el café, monté sobre mi bicicleta, de regreso al cementerio para encontrar a Sarah, allí como siempre dejé mi bicicleta, detrás de uno de los grandes monumentos Judíos por el arroyo que iba a través del campo santo; sin mas alharaca , la busque. Era bastante temprano y yo no podía descubrir al vigilante o los cuidadores del cementerio por ningún lugar o al menos ellos no estaban en ningún lugar visible, Como hice así, con aprehensión, vi a Sarah viniendo desde el otro lado del Cementerio, ella estaba caminando, bajo el camino ella continuó en un estado de desconcierto, o así parecía, entonces yo busque arriba y abajo del alto follaje, era casi evidente- algo, había estado pasando ahí antes, antes de mi llegada.
A pesar de mi preocupación, me llené de alegría al ver a Sarah viniendo mas cerca, y sentí que había una trampa en curso. Llámele intuición, o una segunda vista momentánea, pero eso sentí por alguna razón.
Mientras ella se acercó, minuto a minuto yo encontré mi afecto creciendo; nosotros solo habíamos estado casados durante una semana o algo, y conocido el uno al otro un mes o menos. Yo vi palmear sus manos con deleite viéndome sonreír mientras ella estaba ahora casi a 300 pies lejos.
En la bruma de su caminata, más ella se paró. Una sombra débil de luz suave vino sobre la palidez de su cara, temor; y su frente se elevó. Mientras ella estaba parada, un miedo creció sobre mí, no sea que siendo tan lejano y todavía tan cerca, podía ser que sus enemigos estén muy cercanos. Ella vio mi angustia, con un movimiento lento de su mano derecha-, rápidamente como el ingenio de una mujer, me señalo para quedarme quieto sin moverme. La oí decir:
“No estés asustado por mi querido”. (Yo estaba en la milicia, en Augsburg, Alemania, un Sargento raso, viviendo fuera de la base, en la economía alemana. Ella era una judía alemana, y yo averiguaría mas tarde, una espía; agarrado mordidas y piezas de información, aparentemente no mucho, pero los cianóticos de artículos sin valor para ver si ella podía escaparse con eso; una clase de primicias creo yo, para cosas mas grandes para el futuro). Luego ella dijo, como tres hombres parecían venir de algún lado, detrás de mí; ella claramente los había visto:
“estos son los hombres con los que yo necesito hablar” ellos no desean apresarte a ti, pero solo quieren hablarme por cinco minutos” careciendo del respeto previsto para quienes ellos eran, comencé a saltar con una pierna estirada, pero parado, y se hizo como ella deseó. Yo aprendería que ellos eran una clase de agentes secretos (yo nunca encontraría de que gobierno: americano, alemán ó ruso).
Esa mañana mi corazón golpeo pesadamente, como yo vi las espaldas de esos tres hombres caminando con Sarah a través del alto follaje del cementerio hacia una entrada lateral. Yo comencé a seguirlos, pero ella insistió que no, mientras ella volteaba unas pocas veces para ver si yo estaba siguiéndolos. Más, yo me paré por un momento, pero emprendí el viaje de regreso nuevamente. Ella caminó hacia un carro aparcado a lo largo de cementerio esperándolos y esa fue la última vez que la vi. Y el comienzo de una larga investigación.
Nota: El autor estuvo en Augsburg, Alemania en 1970; en un tiempo cuando muchas cosas estuvieron pasando a lo largo de Alemania Oriental. No era raro para los espías estar bebiendo cerveza con los de la GI en el hotel americano en Augsburg (de los tres países mencionados en la historia); en el hotel, el bar estaba en el sótano, y a través de la calle estaba el campo militar; donde la artillería 1/36 estaba estacionada. Aun la prensa husmeo tratando de averiguar quien era quien de vez en cuando en aquella barra, eso es todo lo que puedo decir.

Train to Munich (Oktoberfest, 1970) Reedited

We had met a girl once from Denmark (met her at the Oktoberfest of 1970, in Munich), and my friend Ski, he dated her for a while, after going to Denmark to see her—; I remember meeting her, and she was a doll, bronze skin and all, healthy from the breast to her little toes. He met her at one of the big fest tents, with me, then Ski went to Denmark to be with her during some of his leave time, we were both Private First Class, soldiers at the 1/36 Artillery in West Germany; only to come back and say she smoked pot, and took some LSD and he tried to reform her (he never liked pot heads).
I always kind of felt she was lucky to get away from him, he was what we called in the Army, a loose cannon, he could go off at any given moment. I think when I was with him I really didn’t want to meet anyone, I was kind of claustrophobic that whomever I’d meet with him, there was also impending disaster to befall me. But the train to Munich was a blast, there again we almost got into a predicament, let me explain.

As we got off the train (Ski and I) we were obvious to any onlooker, that we were soldiers, as obvious as someone carrying a sack of potatoes, I would expect, walking through that train station, out its doors, then outside onto the sidewalk, at 5:00 AM. I witnessed right away young folks walking, waking up, from few a hours sleep in the corners of the train station, sacks in their hands, or laying beside them, or laying on them, the renowned Oktoberfest was in motion, it was the main event in Munich, and we, Ski and I, were going to it, and this was the place to be, or at least the place I wanted to be. No reservations needed, just your body.
Several young Germans were walking on the opposite side of the sidewalk, several blocks from the train station, where Ski and I crossed over to the other side:
“You speak English?” asked Ski, to the group. They looked at us strangely; we simply wanted to find our way to the fairgrounds. Ski was almost, always, abrupt with his way of trying to make a dialogue—with anyone (but me).
“American GI´s” a voice from the group said. Ski lifted his eyebrows, I figured this would be a fight, or it was at least in the makings.
“No, we’re reporters from New York City…”said Ski. In consequence we got a lot more respect instantly, I was a bit surprised.
“We’re from a …” (a magazine, can’t remember which one he said, but they were impressed, and so was I that we could get away with such a fib)—and to be frank, I felt something like a volt of electricity in the air, after this mirage was created.

—We then walked about Munich for a number of hours, I saw an old bum laying drunk on the sidewalk, everyone just stepped over him or around him, and I stopped and starred at him, I wanted to help him I think, but Ski said rapidly:
“Come on… we’re almost there, he can’t be helped, and he’ll sleep it off!” And for the most part, I think for once he was right, and we could see the entrance to the Oktoberfest, and were both getting excited.
Once through the entrance, we found a big beer hall, and we couldn’t pass it up, or I couldn’t, and we stopped in it and had a few giant mug beers. The Oktoberfest was huge, with big beer tents all about. It was perhaps 11:00 AM. We walked about for a while, I didn’t want to get too drunk too quick, so I slowly drank, and found a place to rest under a shady tree, on an embankment, where a lot of hippies were; that evening, Ski and I would return there to rest again, and watch all the hippies sack out for the evening, having their own personal picnics.
Then we went on to the biggest beer tent at the fest. I was getting drunk now, and ended up dancing on the tables with folks I never knew, holding hands, looped within theirs. I was talking to a woman later on at the entrance of a beer tent, I had said a few words in German, and she rattled on for an hour, and she thought I could understand her, but I could only understand every fifth word or so, which I suppose was good enough. Then Ski came along, said he had met this gal, and he’d introduce her to me shortly, and we both went to the bathroom, and some guy took a picture of us, urinating, not a good thing to do, and Ski blew up, grabbed his camera and broke it in front of him, broke it into several pieces, and the guy almost cried, and when he started yelling, Ski leaped towards him, and I had to pull him off he guy before he’d kill him.
“Let’s get out of here quick Ski, German police may somehow take his side…” I told Ski, and out we went into another tent, with a chicken leg and a mug of beer in our hands. As I said, I was getting drunk, but I never say Ski get drunk, not at the fest, or anyplace, not at our base in Augsburg, ever.
And we left the tent, and then the gal showed up, and he introduced her to me; lovely as could be, nice shape.

Our ride back to Augsburg, on the train would not be so exciting, we were both tired, and wanted to rest somewhat. Which was good for me because I didn’t want to be confronted by the conductor, and his comrades again, like on the way down, which I forgot to mention, but we ended up in his cabin, because Ski wanted something, and pushed the porter, and a fight right in his cabin was mounting, and there was three or four of them, and two of us, but I was ready, and Ski was more than ready, but I smoothed it out, at the last second. All in all, the train to Munich, the trip and the fest, was exceptional.

Democracy Reflected

Democracy Reflected

(An Essay)

I suppose this is an ongoing question,”Why do people denounce Democracy?” In America this is often looked upon as a mortal sin, almost, and as President Bush would proclaim: the world at large should be under such an umbrella. Anybody’s guess is good here though, but let me try to explain my opinion, and of course it is just that, an opinion, and perhaps too opinionated.
Some folks in the world feel others are unequal to them, thus, weak to the point of saying, as Darwin would have said it: we are the strong, and because of that, supreme, hence, we should be of the aristocracy. From the times of Plato, to the rulers of the world today, this has been going on. Put in more blunt terms, democracy is for the birds, or better yet, for weak to hold the strong back, so dictators would say. Law is no invention of the strong to chain the weak, although it would seem so from a long distance look. Rather, it is for non enslavement, of both the strong and weak.
In some countries throughout the world, I can see democracy getting in the way, as well as preserving the way. Yes, I take middle ground on this fragment of the issue at hand. I am not sure if the Middle East, in every single country there, can depend on democracy to deliver them peace, for the attitudes of its people is inefficient for it, that is to say, a government for the people, by the people, sounds good in words, but in practice, there is another picture. And in the name of democracy, there has been many a revolution born. Socrates, an uncle to Plato, might disagree, Aristotle, a student of Plato’s might argue the point. Plato was rich to start out with, and Socrates, free of worrisome matters, they both had at their finger tips, as did Aristotle, prosperity; so if power and influence is given to you, the point of everyone should have democracy or no democracy can be voiced, as Bush would have it, democracy for all, no matter if it worked for them or not: he sees it from a different perceptive, the American one; he does not see, it also can also be a Catch-22 for a country not ready for it.
Whatever I say, I carry doubt with it, why, because dogmas are dogmas, no matter which way you look at them, as are opinions, it is how we look at things, and how we look at things is according to our upbringing, our environment, our societal and psychological views, beliefs, how we have in the past examined them, if indeed people nowadays examine anything beyond their bank accounts, but principles and values are also in the making here.
We can look at the state of affairs, virtue, morality, and come up with definitions, analysis, more confusion, but nevertheless we are bequeathed to our state, and to our state comes patriotism, and if it says democracy is ridiculous, and is not a virtue, which some will proclaim to be wisdom, democracy does not in their case produce harmony, nor can or will it.

Two Poems on: Beauty Grows Old, and "What is Important"

Two Poems on: Beauty Grows Old
(And commentary on what is important)

Song of the summer
(Along the Shores of Lima)


Oh, winter is gone and spring has fled.
Oh, days are long, and nights are dead.
And the ski is clear and the winds’
blowing warm.

Summer is new and the ocean wind meek
how it stops and creeps about—
along the shores, of Lima!…

death, oh death
and its faintest breath has a whisper
from the pacific gloom—
and it sighs under the pale skies
of the Lima moon.

Oh, winter is gone and spring has fled.
Oh, days are long, and nights are dead.
And the ski is clear and the winds’
blowing warm.


Written 1-6-2008 at EP, in Miraflores, Lima, Peru.


Once we were Lilies

We all shall lose thy beauty in the end,
a while longer thou shall see my friend.
Thy lips once soft, as silk, shall grow old;
once beautiful maidens, now lilies lain froze!
Beauty, oh beauty, now desolate.

#2136 1-6-2008 Written at EP, in Miraflores, Lima, Peru



What is Important?


It seems to me most people I see, as I look here and there, neighbors, and so forth, live in a circles, not realizing how they got to the circle, nor care; seldom do they leave it, and wait to die in it (this is Lima I’m talking about, as well as the rest of the world, and especially St. Paul, Minnesota where I also live, and in the Andes, where I live). In between, they survive, pray, eat, sleep, but never go beyond the circle. I ask myself, why do I think like this, perhaps it is true, and having an active life, going to war, and traveling the world, and trying to meet quest after quest, it is simple for me to spot such things—it is neither right or wrong, it just is. I see in the mountains (the Andes) Sheppard’s and in the valleys and jungles, folks doing their crafts, selling this and that in the Amazon, as well as in Guatemala, Mexico, Vietnam, Cambodia, Bali, Java, and so forth, making it from day today, whose families have been doing the same thing for generations, where poor is really poor, and most are uneducated, but how they love a simple book on their culture, how proud them become. They really haven’t missed much, to be honest, I mean, I seen a lot, but so what, it only tells me, people are almost all the same, worldwide, from India, to Cambodia, to the slums in Minnesota, Chicago, New York, and Seattle, to Peru. Poor is poor, and generations hand down their recipes to the next, and that is what my Russian roots did, my grandfather to my mother, and to me, but I kind of forgot what recipes they were, so I may be the gap in the generation chain, when folks in the future look back. So what is this all about, these words, comments: it is nice to be who you are, not someone else, not envious or jealous, or anything like that. We’ve chosen our lives as they are, for whatever reasons, and most likely they are pretty good reasons, so what now? A good question, perhaps whatever you’ve been dreaming to do, if possible, go do it, time is short. I found out most folks that want to take a trip around the world, could if they wanted to (stop this or that and they could come up with the money), but don’t, why because it is not that important. You see we can sell this or that do this or that to make it happen, but we don’t because this or that is not that important. I could have had 20-hourses paid for, but I traveled around the world 27-times, so I only end up with two, that is the price one pays, you got to count the cost. That is what was important to me yesterday. Today, I have a new plan, and that is what is important to me now, and I am working it. To all those young folks out there, get a plan, and work it. Don’t stop in the middle and say, ‘Well…’ and have an excuse to stop it. Work the plan out. Make a new one after that one is done. So many folks start and stop, that they never finish anything, and die saying, “If only…” or “I could have…but?” Do it!!