casa velasquez

A Spaniard talks on the phone. In the
Casa Velazquez. Something’s
Unstable. Smacks of simmering
Cauldron. Watch the fire. Don’t feed it
Too fast. He pitches and rolls in
Blunt Castellano. Behind are the fir-
Covered hills. A hazy sun seeps through
A pekinese sky. The wall the window
Frames was once a frontline. The hills
Belonged to Fascists. These walls
To their opponents. The bullet rico-
Chet danced across the lawn. The
Spaniard keeps talking. The phone’s
A control valve. He talks about his
Project: no way back home. He’s
Strung out like a sniper. Each call
A shot in the dark. Blind hope of
Hitting targets. It’s a phoney war.
Him on his side of the room, me on
Mine. The hills behind us. The
Silent struggle ever constant.


25.11.05