To remind themselves they can't have fucked up too much

Heaven LLC invites up the regulars

who play every Monday

at Rio's Pedra de Sa.

These no-name musicians whose sweaty

fans swaddle them like glistening orbs

climb the stone steps laid by slaves

God grabs them by their sound waves

The guitar pluck sweeps the slaves'

chin up; the Angolera whose ancestors

set the stone where masters shackled and sold her.

Her spirit remains in this sacred place

of lost and found, the ground where

life and death swirl in the saudade stew.

Her children play music

baked to perfection

in the convection oven

of a summer favela day.

The crowd molds into amber over hot

coals, a fluid samba of new and old.

I have goosebumps and God,

despite mythical WMDs and tipping points,

taps her feet.

Fractals

That's the word. It comes

to me in a moment as my brother

waves his hands, eyebrow gymnastics

and Steven Hawkins soliloquy

stretching across the table.

We can predict the path

of human behavior, it all relates

to our past experiences

and patterns found in every day life...

he trails off, eyebrows landing soft

and hands ducking beneath the table.

The universes' mysteries, her habits

tangle in his brain,

unfurling in rare, precious moments.

Life is so big and so

small at the same time, and for that reason

I am thankful for a few shared months

gleaned from the universes' infinite,

swirling blue march, in a place

where toilets flush counter-

clockwise and mullets are popular

and steak sizzles over hot coals

at every street corner.

Some patterns do not repeat

except in memory

so we hold those memories close

to remind us of what was

and that, if we want,

we have the power to repeat them.

Your Band of Wisdom

The whole village lost power

and your stomach settled.

The old ladies who knew

nothing of cameras puzzled out

flash and zoom with me and David

while you recovered from food poisoning.

We lit candles, calling upon

magic and moonlight and papery

old woman fingers

to warm the blue kitchen. Tilcara

shines bright in my heart

as the place where darkness

felt most safe. The kindness

of others, strange yet familiar,

gave me hope. I am so glad

a picture exists of your wisdom

rising with the morning sun

to strum a guitar while we waited

for a bus and our next adventure.

Salvador

Hoje desejei ser uma batata na terra

me engordando no solo humedo

apertando minha barriga nas estrads das minhocas

Sinto os raices extender,

ondas eternas pelo mar marron.

O mar azul vira rosa no reflexo do por do sol

e eu volto a casa

com a chave prestada no pescoço

amarrada com uma fita a cor da areia

para no o perder

como aqui perco

partes do meu couro, minha casca.

A chave e uma coisa nova

como o visual das nuvens as 6.15 no Salvador,

como estos desejos recentes de virar verdura.

A chave abre a porta de dois amigos novos

nutrientes desse solo humedo nesse pais quente.

Mulheres no Recife

Perdimos o show de Cordell

na noite Recifensa, os tambores e sombrinos ecoando nas ruas.

A gente não sintiu falta porque

Kirancinho tocou um solo com um chapeu engolindo a cabeça

e Rafainha fez uma comida e balançaba na cozinha

e sentí literatura do nordeste pulsar no living

nos abraçando num espaço sagrado

de mulhers com pes sujas e barrigas satisfeitas.

Bastardizing Culture through Baking

Las salteñas son las mejores,

me dice Luana, se las sirven

con ají picante y la carne molida-

es un belleza. She kisses

the tips of her fingers and explodes

them into the air.

No, no, says Mauro, seguramente

a ella le va a encantar las de

Cordoba. Llevan una pasa de uva

y son dulcecitos. El azucar cristaliza

un poquito allí encima y te hacen

cosquillas a la lengua.

Once at a dinner party

I made empanadas

from honeyed black beans

and tomato and no one

said “these are good.”

The repulgue, lo que normalmente indica si sea

carne, queso y cebolla, pollo,

les mentiró como la gringa

sonriendo, diciendo por favor,

toma una empanada.

For the Argentines

I tried to feed that night

an empanada verdadera

does not stray from grandma's

recipe. I've learned from the grimaces

of colleagues and friends

that experimental cooking is mostly

accepted on college campuses where

Americans bang pots and pans together.

It's like God dumping grape

concentrate into freshwater

or Maradonna (also God) snorting

himself into a pudgy, cocaine oblivion.

Why ruin a perfectly good thing?

Sometimes creative culinary flair

shouldn't be shared with the traditionalists.

Wizard Whomping in the Alerces of Patagonia

Los Alerces son algunos

de los arboles más viejos

del mundo. Estiran

despacio hasta el cielo, nunca

tomando una decisión rapidamente.

Dejan que el mundo pasa y siguen

fortaleciéndoso, sus raices cavando

en el suelo.

Escucho a la voz

de Violeta Parra susurrando “El musgo

en las piedras, y si si si” hasta cuando

llegamos en el refugio, y el dueño,

Marcos, tocando la guitarra. ecoa

la espiritu triste de su vecina chilena.

Nosotras cuatro- dos ingelsas, una escoscesa

y una estado unidense, intentamos de repetir

la letra que el dueño del refugio nos enseña,

pero las palabras se clavan en la garganta

y salen todo torpe como de niño.

El alma del alerce, lo sentimos, pero no lo

somos, y admiramos la dexteridad del dueño

y el llanto de la guitarra saliendo hasta el viento

que pasa en las hojas de los arboles mayores

del mundo.