Simon Tertychny. El querido diario del bien-ubicado caballero

1.
The first day off the plane,
I tender-stepped, like on a minefield, 
barely disguised by the three bags that grand-totaled my life.

I wore a red shirt
as an invite to all fates to strike 
down and in. Not so as yet. So fast.
Got into bed, lazy as if,
nitpicking my untying bellybutton 
for traveler's dust. Hello Rio, mean to say, 
hello, dear Sant Iago. Let it all go. Begone,
the yesterday-old past.

Among the items taken
one passport (blue), illicitly obtained,
one pair of barely stained, pair? There is but one.
Five books of poetry, three others,
some photos from the night before my boarding.
Everyone smiles, though the bird still does not fly. 
It flees. Floats upstream. Then so lonely.

Why go? One can be that 
anywhere, and I have much perfected 
the sly art of a creased eye, a face unoccupied by an expression
rounding off the direct legs. 

First notice to creator,
air is kerosene sweet, birds not too loud, very little feces
on the streets bearing the names of Providencia and Passy,
its street sign, one most accosted by the English speaking travelers,
and Los Leones? There are no lions in these staring mountains.

By now I have wandered by myself
around Amstel, Hudson, Neva, Thames, muck-Moscow-river,
Vltava, Seine, Arno and Tevere, 
and everyplace I thought of millstones, 
and crossed the rivers’ bridges and walked on, 

a loner in Barcelona, Athens, Brindisi and Salamanca,
Milan or Cordoba, and every other dry and watered-down town
a traveler with his khaki sack traversed, and now, two Santiagos. 
This one divided by Mapocho river, some two feet of water.

I got up off the bed and went to look for la Moneda,
to check against the grain of documentary
memory, smuggled by drink.


2.
Moved to a residence, one run by Dona Eliana

La senora
did not want to take men 
into her boarding house:

they are dirty, loud, they drink,
and, besides, are likely to bring women
to her neat rooms, she explained while we discussed 
the rent.

I wanted to tell her about a couple of women 
I knew who are dirtier, louder and given to drink
more than any man of comparable dimensions,

but I restrained myself from saying things
about women whom I'd known, since from my knowing women
to bringing them into a neat room was one step
she was about sure to make.

Later in the evening I went out to explore,
once Dona explained the intricate system of keys,
locks and light switches that likely kept 
this house from being taken over by wilding
socialist mobs (that took their socialism too literally)
before all that was smothered down by General 
Augusto Pinochet Ugarte.

The name brings to me other word formations 
from childhood, Samoza's gangs and Pershing 
with his rockets.

I ventured out without a map,
or a sense of direction,
turned on Carnicero,
walked by a closed subway station
and ended up next to a social service office.

The service it provided seemed to be
the very space the building occupied - 
it was the coveted, white marble steps and
spaces stuck between the columns, where the clients
slept, played cards, and stared at people who
went about without a map.

I begged directions to a nearest bar
and was directed to a place that served
nothing but liter bottles of Escudo.
Along with one of these, a man appeared 
out of the Pantheon of social service, 
he carried a large sheet of paper
on which, inscribed in yellow marker lay 
some words to the effect that once, we (proud Chilenos) 
were sold on coca cola, and that now, (spelled, charmingly,
hohora) the same-faced evil 
was prepared to steal petroleum 
to sell it to the Iraqis, at raised prices.

The man was clearly divested 
of his mind, he went on repeating "but I have a son,
and I don't want a thing from you, but read my note
and ponder, then I will have performed my labor."

I offered him a cigarette, and he felt 
compelled to pay a hundred pesos for it, 
and after long deliberations 
it was decided it will go for the tip
to our bedraggled waitress that reminded me
of women of the Russian railroads, without teeth,
but with much fire in their eyes.

One liter's time was passed by the unsteady guy
explaining to me his confusion as to the difference 
between the socialism that existed in the dictionary 
and the socialists, that he supposed, were at this time
running or ruining his country.

He commented, now in utter discomposure,
that under the General's shined military rule
some houses, though small, were built 
to house the poor, and that when the dictadura
was at last erased, by what my conversational companion understood 
to be the socialist party, less houses were built,
and they were smaller. At this juncture I paid my bill,
and shook his shaking hand, wished him good night
and took to feet, which took me 
across the park and streets
that at this hour were populated by a variety of whores
all dressed like Britney, in short skirts and heels, some running
to their corners, some already there, 
waiving at motorists.


3.
At my school, where I study preaching language, 
majority of hours pass
repeating easy questions in the most serious tone, 
like a mock trial for the feeble minded,
example: Is it a man or is it meat,
and are they seas or is the man 
with outstanding forehead in the picture,
a teacher, and if not, who is.


4. Regrets regarding a letter to an ex-girlfriend.

My dear, in reference 
to the last letter I sent,
please disregard it, better yet,
delete it,
unread.

I did not mean
the things I said.
I did not mean to mean 
the things I said,
I merely meant to send you something,
that you may not consider me amiss,
and what came out was unfit to send.

I should have left it in my draft folder,
but forgot,
between the idle chuckle
of the keys
and finger-tips
and calculated tips
and isolation,
that certain things are better off 
unsent and undelivered, or,
in fact, untyped.

Were I to be as much a master 
of domain as I aspire,
I would have pulled these letters
like a thread
out of the needle
when the rent it meant to stitch 
is fastened, or revealed
to be a fold, and not in need of mending.

These words do not 
have to be words familiar 
to the recipient on your end
of this, one of the most unfair, bargains.

Please, therefore, disregard,
delete, forget,
as I forgot the simple rules 
of this domino dominion apparently called love.

You do not need a guide
to walk away
to common places that have not
been known to be frequented,
or uttered, by me.

Let us agree, for once,
that our romance
was nothing but a struggle
of resilience 
and of chance
that pulled us,
like the horses pull apart
the ones condemned
to such an overbearing death.

The message that I sent 
was not by me,
or if by me, not any longer 
mine.

Hello, good evening and good bye.


5. 
The pipes in my new home make much noise,
when someone flushes they sound like an ungifted vocalist
doing the scales and burbling when he gets to the very bottom.

When in the shower, the sounds are that of air combat,
a squadron of Luftwaffe's Fokkers
settling old scores.
The outcome of the battle is unclear
since the water is shut off.


6. 
Pathomimetic vagrant peels his socks
and lets out a whimper of dismay,
his toes have peeled along with socks,
and now his stability is challenged.
His standing in the universe is in question.
This was not meant to be on his agenda.

He pools his eyes to my position
and decides to make another go
at distribution of disturbing of the peace. 
“Please, sir,� - he says',
“I do not know my house, nor if it is
a place or only an idea, 
perhaps three hundred pesos 
could dissolve whatever the dilemma 
on my mind.�

We are like
the same side of the same coin.
I called upon my patronizing saint
and told the vagrant off.

I'm occupied 
by how much
I am pleased to miss you.

This reassures me,
I, too, can be alive. 
My toes are with me,
where is my home?

This kind of work
one only does 
in transit.


7. 
Well-hung and swinging
dear friend to friends,
ex-loved one to ex-love,
son to ex-father,
applicant to few,
admitted to still fewer,

like other sea-worn seamen,
some days my life is not 
a grand buffet.

And to insult an injury,
I get some compliments from women
for nothing if not reasonable fee.

I am easily discouraged 
by success.


8.
This just came to my mind:
glum adders
in repose 
coil their bottle-colored standards 
in my nest, my inside
of my neck,
to add to overwhelming
trouble of the world.

Is this the smog
or have I lost my gift
for breathing?


9.
Walking and discoursing 
on the parenthetical nature 
of smoke-like cordilleras
I came across a plaza hidden
behind some undistinguished bars.

Lit by the settling sun
the plaza was the very image
of heaven. Some children
played, a couple kissed 
and grasped, a trio of my fellow
gringas occupied a table of a cafй 
that served no coffee, was festooned
in Argentinian flags and Maradona's newspaper renditions, 
addled Madonna of the slums.

I sat and asked for water
and considered
the palliative powers 
that the little concrete square 
transparently possessed.
Entire happiness
washed over me.

I leaned back and smiled.


10.
Confieso que he vivido,
pero no me acuerdo nada de ello.