1. La Romita
We begin here, where the antiquated Spanish aqueducts were abandoned
to an inarticulate architecture we
bracketed by church buildings built
with coquina now alienated in allegory, where the place we were placed is displaced, as the turntable spins to sublate the pattern: everyday rearriving to we arrive over again everyday at.
Barefoot girls selling guayaba and cigarettes in singles in tin gardens do so under duress. Give thought to giving. Bonfires in painted oil barrels. Candling tealights on the chapel staircase.
And homeless men, half naked
in newspapers, in suits that didn’t fit absolutely, are included out and boxed in.
I was, lost in thought and uninvolved, in a suit that didn’t fit absolutely, sharing a bottle of red in brown paper on a park bench with two backpacking blonde women in army boots.
Doing sousveillance on the scene, which was quite a scene,
of the scenic obscene, or from what I’ve seen from place to place.
Aluminium flowers cut from pop cans. On footpaths and sleeping mats,
from a cameralen’s caked in egg yoke a double-red graffiti wall sun
on a boarded window, like a sunspot burn mark licked out the bonfire, then photographed.
Longing for belonging
Sugar House Review # 16