G O R G E    A N D    R U S H
Tapa notebook, Oct 2007.

28/10/07: Viñales

A town of ankle–deep puddles
of chickens, cows, skinny horses and goats
of locals who angle their heads in greeting
of pine trees nailed with revolutionary messages
of pregnant teenagers on a rocking chair verandah - hoar materno
of a priest’s grey vestments hangered in the confessional
of wire fences strung with slices of hairy bark
of sexual round stomached women
of shirtless boys playing marbles beneath a balboa tree
of mothers pegging nappies under the eaves
of Zapata moustaches
of shared rum and songs on a farmers cart, hitching a ride into town
of a Cuban cataract
of turkey vultures circling in front of a blood pink dinosaur
of Senora Nereida who greets me off the bus with a plastic rose
of emaciated horses with hessian saddles
of tractors chugging through a muddy main street
of a black Daimler cruising by, whistling at someone
of fellow rain watchers laughing, waving from across the street
of cisterns that won’t flush and baskets full of soiled paper
of mosquitos that descend as thought bubbles
of mile high tractor-tread sunsets
of musicians describing a new song, gesturing C then G
of pigs rooting in the darkness
of a mad fucking rooster crowing outside my window at 4am
of blackbean soup, cucumber & tomato salad, fried banana chips, rice, fruit salad, chicken & frites – Nereida’s meal for me
of bullock carts the colour of earth
of market sellers adjusting their cojones
of butchers hacking at pork shanks, arguing the scales
of school girls practicing a dance step beside the fountain
of Nereida’s husband unwrapping a bundle of home rolled cigars
of a farmer’s ox cart with small tree trunks in place of wheels
of bottled laughter and stumbling words – if you don’t speak Spanish the price goes up
of a vinyl record discarded in the street, somebody Hernandez, Miguel maybe?
of umbrella lives swaying past the door
of thunder booming across the rooftops, the town rigged for night, coming loose from its moorings



Brian Flaherty