Prayer
from the series ⌘Shift3 Lullabies
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Belen
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On a riverbed of coal burning Peruvian Amazon, fish soup from the Itaya River, home to Belen,
from the market Belen on water in December, I’m only five waiting for bananas in the pot.
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A Crush to the Fountain and Marcel Duchamp
.
breathing from my diaphragm
pent-up to see u
self-flushing liver i go
goat farm over carnations
choosing me over him
bare & stiff at times
face to face the steam
a crush i don’t flush
readymade otherwise
-Mike Fernandez
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Negra
.
Chopping half moons Tonight Negra
we play You too By the throat Negra
to the alley and windpipe
Bending knees to get through
and undo so I can see Negra Wait
Missing a shoe Negra
Getting cleaned up feed you first
Hungry tomorrow two blocks away
and we knock Tonight Not tomorrow
Out of the way keep the chair
Just got here I’m open Negra
By the hallway Broken bread to your lips
the cup Thirsty Be over me
By her door Negra not in the garden
Broken beat Frozen nose pick-up
a new liver Out of pocket space heater too
lamb shanks saints too Child’s play Negra
Warm up Give it Negra
Will but everything Negra Mine
Just got paid Negra Over the water
when I see you Negra Have to go
a piece of you Three liters
out of my lungs Negra
Fever
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Untitled
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Close to the space heater…closer to ten below and you slowly going away.
Last I heard from you, your voice banging a muffled cut…to the head.
You were already gone by then.
Breathe, when you nap when you faint and can’t see. You man up, I know.
And more of a man than the one you married…throwing you across the room.
Out of my bed to perforate his skull with your heels…I tried at twelve. But this
is about you on a bus from Miami to Idaho to the green hill without a city
to growing Peruvian potatoes in Idaho…purples and yellows in the back.
Three mobile homes, a rental and a home. Homemade meals worthy of a prayer
and a dance with the cat…the granddaughter you had to have.
Your boys take time to grow.
Vitamins and trips to the hospital…on time. “I’m not afraid anymore.”
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Letter from the Amazon
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Shirin,
I promised you a gift from Peru. You wanted a llama but I told you I wasn’t going to Machu Picchu..my run was to the Peruvian Amazon.
In Iquitos (Peru’s Amazon capital) are two native tribes along the Nanay River. I handed the Bora’s chief the equivalent of seven dollars (standard procedure) for the visit. A quiet lazy day at the camp…I was the only one there from the outside. The natives, young and old…barefoot, bare breasts. The young flashing their latest handmade crafts for sale. In the main hut, bewildered…I could see in the distance four native girls chasing a group of tourists who weren’t interested in their goods. Is this how they make a living? That and yam farming. Perhaps Ayahusca, the tonic that makes you hallucinate (but that’s another story). Is it enough to feed a tribe of four hundred? It’s been forty years since they were brought down to this side of Iquitos by travel agents.
“Do you have any candy?” she whispers. “No. I wish I did.” She had to be around twelve years old. “Take this Boa’s bracelet for the black t-shirt.” “The one tied to my bag?…It’s dirty” I answered. “I’ll wash it” she says…grabbing the shirt with a gentle touch. I was sitting next to her. Holding my camera, looking into her eyes…my right hand wouldn’t move to take her photograph.
The black t-shirt was still damp from washing it the night before. I had puked at the hostel after taking herbal medicine. On my way to the bathroom, I grabbed the t-shirt so I wouldn’t destroy the patio’s clean tiles…couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough. I wonder if the NY Times still gives those out to weekender subscribers?
In this photograph the girl and my t-shirt are somewhere in there…behind morning mist and banana leaves.
Talk soon,
.
.
May
Found someone better
by the kitchen floor
who eats two apples
for dinner
Since May
October on time
now Devil behind
from Domingo
mud on carpet
till November
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Ucayali River
On hammocks
wooden benches
and the floor
Ucayali River
heavy load
in sleep and sweat
A pot of rice
for two
for many
Goods to sell
tight enough
to trust the rope
Rope we know
to fish and cross
wide enough
to trash
back and forth
to feed the floor
wooden benches
and the load
.
Lupe
saving a little bit of cash
Yes my hands swell up
I get out in an hour
My friend says he has a job
for me on the weekends
I have another house
to clean on mondays
Hungry?
Come by the restaurant
I’ll give you something
I have a place to stay
You are coming to me
with cold beers
.
More Lupe photographs: mikefernandez.net
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Iquitos
You sleep here?
You liar
Is that iron?
Where are you going?
Iquitos
Me too
Where are you coming from?
Lima
Me too
Did you bring food?
Where do you sleep?
What do you write down?
Take a picture of me
When we get to Iquitos
Free of charge
On top of the boat
This water is no good
No good to drink
I have to change
For the photo
This is dirty
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Thinking About Lima
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Thinking about Lima, the only thing that hadn’t changed in twenty years
is the stadium’s urinal. The smell of championships’ past…the shit years,
the quick sell, looking tough…Going back…to the dirty, to AM Radio in the patio.
Streetwise…the stranger and the young hanging from buses by midnight tomorrow.
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Queen’s Crown
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Queen,
To the sheep and goatskin by the Crown.
And the calf’s dust at five. Salt shaker
in wranglers riding bareback, the Queen.
To your boots…tonight, sage and miles.
Hay and water. To belt buckles…
and bus rides to the bottom.
And horse trailers.
.
Neither
…for the shoes,
nor chickens
or water for plants.
No show…angelwise.
In days, arm over
waist, twisted lad
on paper bag
make do.
.
Honeysuckle Road
Jacked up at times
the bike takes me to you
on Mondays too.
Over Smiley Creek
on Honeysuckle Road
where calls come from
near Green Hill
where nerves lose at times
…ate up at times.
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Silver
We came up for the hell of it. The horse only goes to two places, either
the dive or cemetery. The dog found the mine because of a bone in the silver.
Hey man! Did you play this? Cheers!
Still flooded with water…still pumping water and taking out silver.
They call me Joey, Joey the Claw. Sheepherder, Basque…proud of it
…sly fox, sly fox.
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Nearly
…the cake nearly average.
The household nearly men
and godly…the keeper
nearly honest.
The rodeo nearly finished.
And we’re nearly legal
and country.
Nearly brilliant…nearly
impossible.
.
…With Music Ring
The face
with music ring
…………..Adorned
.,..,,……..taped up gift
………………………Off the track
………………………sacrifice for guilt
………………………………….Weariness
………………………………….by the rod
……………………………………………..The life
………………………………………………to come
…………………………………………………………All
……………………………………………………….. .is well
……………………………………………………………………..Pushing
……………………………………………………………………..on the wind
…………………………………………………………………………………..Pulling
…………………………………………………………………………………..for the mute
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Shovel
Shovel to the earth
to the flower
to you
to me
to begin
to know
tonight
to beat
tomorrow
to one’s feet
to toddle
to you
too
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In Codes
In codes from one tree
to the other
Between the notes
a lung
Skin to the blade
in the open
Deaf ears to the wind
poor bastard
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The Silver Dollar
Abigail,
I’m at a dive called The Silver Dollar in Bellevue, Idaho. Three blocks away from my parents’ house. I walked here (Floridians would’ve driven here). I make friends with the jukebox after getting carded and the bartender hands over a Coors and a shot of whiskey. Why am I here alone? Felt like wandering, walking…just got here from New York and this is what I do there…in places I’ve never been, faces I’ve never seen…observation. Except that I was here on December 31st of last year…around 8pm as the crowd packed the place for the new year and Claudia got depressed. Being single at a dive on freezing temperatures was not her thing, not that night at least and I thought: “What? Two dollars for a beer? Three fifty for a shot? Yes sir, I’ll have another”…a Peruvian feast was in the making down the street, couldn’t get too tanked.
Tonight, it’s early…only a couple of regulars. Sitting in the corner of the bar between a long white beard and a young sunburned cat. I recognize a familiar face walk out, I ask white beard-slash-crown drinking who it was…doesn’t matter, conversation. I tell my man Dave (white beard) I used to live here, I grew up here.
The jukebox clears the air as I sip my whiskey and Dave says; “Hank Williams, the real shit. Who listens to this anymore? Ah!”
Conversations sound better with music, conversations like: “They call them nags cause they box somebody in…they hang out in shallow waters…Kim’s band packs the house” Wait. Kim? Kim Stocking? I went to school with her. Conversations like: “One for the boss…keep them distracted, don’t tip over so fast…everything there weighs eight hundred pounds, you’ve done good son…senior skip party you peed in a bottle and Kim Lloyd drank from it, I always tell that story.”
I kind of like it here. Going home toasted between conversations like: “They don’t eat the sheep, it’s survival like teaching your kid how to throw a ball, they don’t eat them.”
A dying breed, Bellevue…boom town.
Always,
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New Year’s Eve. copyright Mike Fernandez 2011
To a Meeting Place
To a Meeting Place,
Did we meet in the pocket of light where the deaf cat in both ears
hangs out? On the floor of Penn Station where we crashed last night?
By the couch and speakers hungry for affection?
And her rock solid mattress on the floor? By the jukebox
at Jimmy’s Corner counting change? In Damian’s bed?
Walking Saint Mark’s place down to Pacific Street’s home shelter?
By the fire and crabs in Yelapa where she asked me to have sex with her?
On the white sheets we cried after the phone call came in?
Meet me there,
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Did You…
Did you think to pray?
For her or me?
Have I done any good?
Only packed a pair
of trousers.
You bring out the
stomping in me.
My brain is too heavy,
my head is too big.
I would follow you
in the morning.
They don’t ask too much
of the young.
Today I went to church,
tomorrow digging holes
and mixing concrete.
…ran out of nails.
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A Letter to Idaho
Eddy & Eli,
The first photograph sums up a good chapter in Idaho. Identical to the trailer home we lived in Picabo. I still don’t know how it could be so warm & cozy inside…blizzards couldn’t put a dent on it. The truck reminds me of dad’s little white pick-up, driving to Sawtooth Wood Products in Bellevue with all the junk in the back. I can still smell it, especially after some log peeling.
This trailer home’s window takes me back to Little Moj’s ranch. From the tiny window (the smallest trailer home in the world) I could see whose car was heading our way miles away, always hoping it would be someone cool.
I remember early on my ESL teacher asking me where I would like to go. And I shouted; “Kings,” the miniature version of a Kmart twenty miles away. I think she was looking for a deeper answer…this anecdote came to mind while we were at Kings looking to get mom a Christmas gift.
Walking in Idaho was no joke, boot camp to the city. Plenty of times I got stranded without a ride. Like the time I went skiing and I couldn’t get anyone to pick me up. I had to cross-country ski from River Run to the Meadows in my downhill skis in record time. The all-star basketball game was on, my knees about to pop when I got home. Or the time after football practice at Carey High School. I don’t know what propelled me walk up-hill across the mountain. It got dark as soon as I could see the long road ahead. Dark as ever, I hear a car blasting AC/DC, catching up to me at full speed. I got off the road looking for rocks or stick to man up if I had to (natural instinct if you come from Comas). The little hoopty passes me, stops and hits reverse. I thought it was on, now or never. A dude shouts my name; “Mike, c’mon…get-in”. Three Guns and Roses, Metallica outcasts from school. Home free. The music, the three bandits roaming the country side in complete darkness.
In these photographs, the lighting and mood at dusk are quite theatrical, soothing to say the least. A brutal contrast from Lima, still theatrical, overcharged with friction, violent and haunting in an addictive way. I miss them both.
Idaho, so picturesque…I didn’t know any better, a punk kid from Lima trying to get out or get in…
Love you always,
.
copyright Mike Fernandez 2011
More Idaho photographs: mikefernandez.net/idaho.html
The flowers will hold up
Circa 1981. Utah
The grass is as good as your bed
and the flowers will hold up
Holding on to your left arm
as we fall asleep mama
Always here and someone will visit
the green hill far away north
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2nd Grade Poem
Circa 1959. Lima, Peru
Eddy,
Going through her archives, Mom found this photograph of her (our first house in Lima). This was during our last visit to Idaho…last time we were together. She also found this poem you wrote to her in second grade. I never knew about it. She said you always wrote her poems as a child. I just want to thank you because she was proud, full of joy to show me this treasure. Here it is, love you always.
Mom I know I should have
listned to you but it was fun
While I was having fun I forgot
what you told my. I gusse I
should have thoght before I did anythig
So I made this poem for you.
N: is for Nicest mom ever.
O: is for Outstandin job you do at being a mom.
R: is for Rivera not Albarran.
K: is for kisses you give me.
A: is for I’ll always be your boy.
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Musa
copyright Mike Fernandez 2011
Musa
…across the long night.
Not caring about years
or sickness.
Not caring about the pain
or the effort I must make
to follow you.
Because with you I can cross
the great desolate spaces
and I’ll always find the door
leading back
to the Chimera,
because you’re with me…
-Roberto Bolaño
More Musa photographs: mikefernandez.net/impressions.html
Dear Norkita
Lima, Peru
Dear Norkita,
I’m sending you two of Mike’s photos that my mother kept and says that when Mike came by she gave him some photos, she only has these left that I’m sending you, I hope they work for you, she doesn’t have any more photos, these are the only ones she has left.
Take good care, and please reply to this message.
Greetings
El Negro Soto
Circa 1986
Calling out his name in the mornings as I walked by his place. El Negro Soto, playground baller -slash- street fighter (pictured back row). No brawl too insignificant, no soccer match too trivial to quit. Small time school next to the largest school of the barrio. A short walk back from school turning into miles of friction and thrill. El Negro Soto, rebellious, looking over his shoulder to see who was trailing behind. White shirt coming home with trophies of bloodstains and dirt. A contagious smile amongst the catholic-like regime of primary school. Never-ending recess as we landed in the same secondary school class.
Postcard from Lima
Stone Bridge over the Rimac River
The Rimac River: turbulent as it cuts through downtown and modest neighborhoods with floods and bizarre findings. A postcard from Lima, written to a young man (literally) reads something like this:
Mike Fernandez Rivera.
Happy the days and years
But especially the day of August 9th
A day in which you gain a year of
happiness and wisdom.
May this day be joyful and may God
give you many years.
Your father Cesar Fernandez
Circa 1960
Circa 1960
The woman dressed in black is Mama Yuchi, the little girls’ grandfather’s sister. Standing on Puente (Bridge) Santa Rosa, near downtown Lima. About an hour drive from the then shantytown Comas. Lima boasts a stable population, immigrants from the country find their way to places like Comas, starting from the ground up. Mama Yuchi plays the mother role as her brother Victorino turns down parenthood. The little girl is still eight or so years away from seeing her mother walk out on her.
