Pieces of Me, Pieces of Havana
Mid 90s, Havana. With a little help from Allen Ginsberg
Howl
(Cuban cover version of Allen Ginsberg’s original poem, with percussion, double bass, piano and horns)
That night I saw my generation reflected on the face of that 62-year-old German woman
dragging itself through the jineteros-filled streets at dawn, looking for an answer to the collapse of ideals
angel-looking girls looking for a heavenly connection to take them away in the machinery of night
who, poverty-affected and fidelismo-struck sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of the “wall”, minute dinghies across the water and the sound of timba in the background
who bared their — already semi-naked — bodies to José from Valencia, or François, from Quebec, staggering down poorly lit potholed roads.
who, having graduated from state-funded universities, hallucinated Paris, Madrid and Rome among wannabe western socialists scholars of marxism
who were expelled from these state-funded universities for crazy and obscene odes that turned the gun against its owner
who showed off their half-shaved thighs burning the eyes of salivating tourists fleeing from their so-called terror after the fall of the wall
who got busted by salivating coppers freshly arrived in Havana
who ate the fire offered in purgatoried hotels, expiating their sins before going to heaven, or room 1901
with broken condoms, limp cocks and hairy, shrunken balls
incomparable chevroned-lit neighbourhoods of shuddering, faltering lights, casting shadows on the sub-fauna between the 1830 restaurant and the La Punta fortress
who never knew kabbalah but sought visionary madrinas beaming in supernatural ecstasy on San Rafael, Colón and Águila
who jumped in tur cars on the impulse of a faux winter midnight-fuelled trip to Comodoro Hotel’s disco
who met a 62-year-old German woman vanishing into nowhere Zen, leaving a trail of unambiguous happiness behind, without noticing the happiness-smeared sword of Damocles following her across the ceiling
who had to pull out the sword of Damocles from the 62-year-old German woman’s body when she realised her paramour couldn’t tell the akkusativ from the dativ
II
What sea-facing statues bashed open the 62-year-old woman’s skull and ate up her brains and imagination?
Sat opposite me, facing me, laughing/crying/breaking/questioning/debating/pondering/challenging/demanding
Sag mir mal, warum?
And the weil hangs, hangs from the ceiling like the same sword of Damocles that has now been taken down and driven through her heart
There is no weil you say there cannot be as long as she doesn’t understand the pain stashed away under the stairways, out of the way of punters visiting the illegal paladar
There is no weil as long as she refuses to understand the incongruence of a twenty-two-year-old black male body and that of a Berlin Wall whose eyes are a thousandblind windows
Breakup on the roof, roof overlooking the city, city forced to sleep by scheduled powercuts but awakened by epiphanies and despairs
III
62-year-old German woman, I’m with you on San José Street where you’re madder than me
I’m with you in your incomprehension of my history which even I cannot understand either
I’m with you as the impromptu interpreter as warums and weils bounce from accuser to accused and back
I’m with you as you walk away, down the dark stairs, the sound of reggae music receding from your ears and increasing in mine
I’m with you as you reach your own casa particular and collapse in bed in the same way your “wall” collapsed seven years before
I’m with you as you wake up the next morning and look at yourself in the mirror, my generation reflected on your face
© 2018
