1.
Are
Those pillars
Following me? They’re
Neither
Pillars of
Smoke nor pillars
Of
Fire. They’re
Plastic pillars. How
Odd.
The light
That falls through
The sky
That casts
Those morning or
Afternoon
Shadows isn’t
The light that
Illumines
My face.
That’s odd, too.
2.
I’m
Told (by
Whom?) that I
Was
The tango.
I’m told (again,
By
Whom?) that
Every morning a
Devoted
Following places
A lit cigarette
In
The hand
Of the life-
Sized
Statue that
Graces my tomb.
3.
Look
Over my
Shoulder. I’ve never
Been
In that
Concrete building. Like
Many its
Age, this
One has sealed
Windows,
Must make
Its own atmosphere,
Its
Own light.
But sometimes I
Hear
A / voice,
Small but musical /
Singing
And singing
Those green notes,
Drifting
Toward me,
From somewhere inside.
4.
My
Hair was
Perfect (not deficient
In
Any particular).
So was my
Suit.
I was
Not deceived when
The
Tailor took
Pains. I was
The
Tango … a
Bewitched, phantasmagoric reality
In
Which figures
Inhabit a chiaroscuro
Where
They disappear
And become ghosts …
[Note: Sources: Gardelweb.com; Luis H. Francia, “The Manong Chronicles. I. A Manong Meditates”, in Museum of Absences; Fernando Leal on Alvarez Bravo as quoted by Barry Schwabsky in a text concerning Daniella Rosell as found in footnote 8 to F. Javier Panera Cuevas, “Marcos López (Colour photographs 1993-2003)”, in Marcos López: Sub-realismo criollo; The Oxford Universal Dictionary. Photo: “Worried Gardel”]
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