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(jorge’s journey)
By Louis Reyes Rivera
having passed
through benny’s embrace—
after having
kissed at the screen that
separates a
visit from the cheeks of
his cousin benny
jorge the
younger
lingers for a
century beside this public cage
then lifts his
stride with a strange
longing to join
with hundreds more who
pull &
squeeze at anything that moves
& hopefully
he may find a home waiting for him somewhere
& so,
sawbuck loose in denim suit
jorge the
younger
boards the bus
at green haven
watches the
earth change face
from barbwired
trespass signs
to rolling grass
& rainbow fields –
paved road speeds
neath hot bled rubber
from stop to
diner to sideroad ditch
dug with a twig
behind the brush to
pass his waste
or fertilize
a morning’s
urge beside the bush
& into the
soil -- & when you can’t ride,
you walk on the
same
side as hunger
looking for a hit
jobs come rare
to a record carrier
but every one he
gets becomes a meal
between a fast
–
cotton row / potato sack
peach orchard / orange grove
melon patch / cold nights
strained back / textile farm
tobacco leaves held & baled
by mosquito stings / burlap twine
migrant camps / tired wheels
& army-navy
store stolen boots thread these
southern states
stringing past an evergladed
marsh – until
finally . . .
dilapidated
merchant freighter from miami offers
jorge the
younger room with mush on a bed of beans
a cargo hold to
nap away the stink of northern coffee bags
taxed with
duties from polluted slums –
swish & roll to old san juan
(sun bended rays seem
much closer than before)
rock & splash &
roar & swing &
splattered waves beat hard against the shore
nature’s port
san juan bay
:once etched
deep
from the recess
of jagged
mountains edge
now easing round
smooth cut flow
slurp burp slush
then chop
against a petrified pier
these alien
mariners stand on deck
twitch &
twist tween bell bottomed panting
testacles
tightened on a two-nite crave:
soaken rum & silken squirms
timid screams & sunken head space
pushed into “oh, my god! Can these women sail!”
& jorge,
too, would have stood by the stern to welcome
himself home but
with the stench he sweated
until told of
the time to disembark
“hey, you! pile those crates up on the platform lift;
holler when you’re done; take them each to the
warehouse on the left; get this bill of laden signed
by that Cuban with an exiled twang; bring me back
the
papers to the bar up on the right & maybe then . . .”
& jorge
looks –
imagines this
bridge full of red itch faces
laughing at the
gangplank running toward the
town. the glare
within his nurtured hate
rises with the
scowling sound of barking orders
from deck to
pier & crate to rig
with only a hint
of a promise from the
captain’s
breath,
“. . .
maybe then you might get paid.
but don’t hold past the fifth bell
cause I may not have all day”
& jorge the
younger, twelfth in the line of the first son
scares himself
with his own concession: sideway nod
load the raft
hook that forklift
pull
the rope
holler ‘HOLD’
watch it soar
catch the rim
drag these crates
maxwell house
united fruit sugar coffee peas and rice
different brands
from outer lands
high-low dolly
load again
&
yell, ‘YES’
botado en la calle, pero sigo, compai . . .
push handle truck
four
at one time
stop that Cuban
get him to sign
“ha ti fue quien mandaron!”
“man, sign the damn thing!”
“heh/heh, mira, que con el no se hace na!
ni pa’ la leche del nene se hace na!”
“esta bien, muchas gracias, pero. . .”
clipboard clung
beside his chest, jorge’s labor
ends as he walks
these duty brick burned streets
botado en la calle, pero sigo, compai. . .
stops at the
door / peeps inside the sailor’s bar
signals to his
tormentor,
sky cap tilted
back laughing at the joke
“here’s a ten spot. Wear it slow
thanks for the job not that well done”
Ten? “ten”
TEN!? “ten!”
Muthahhh. . . (slap that bill from out his hand.
beer bottle
up against foot
raised rail. jorge’s hand circles neck swinging wide splatter
cap, thumb
captain smile “SHIT!” screaming loud shattered glass.
“grab that
bastard!”
dim-lit joke & a jab push dim-wit choke. elbow grip round
jorge’s
throat – jerk
pull back jorge’s free – crack a fifth against spittoon
glitter
sharp jagged cut
cut slice & shout out loud)
HOLD IT!
move another & you’ll move no more!
easing steps
jorge makes backwards to the door
eyes full fixed
& once outside drops the bottle
running
botado en la calle, pero ando, compai
botado en la calle, pero sigo, comai
siempre estoy mirando, buscando my pai
siempre encontrando mas de lo que hai
botado en la calle pero. . .
jorge the
younger
twelfth in the
line of the first son born from
the seed of
Caguas heads for that highland town
near the center
of his island heart throb desire
in search of his
father’s crime
&
hopes a home is waiting for him there.
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Source:
Scattered
Scripture: Reaching,
Claiming, Lunging for the Universe of Things (1996)
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