Joe Pacheco's abulita and mine

[austin-ghetto-list@pairlist.net]

Dear Byron,

I have ordered the Joe Pacheco poetry book.

Joe was a profound presence in Brooklyn
College's "Classical Lounge" (sorta like the
Chuck Wagon at the U of Texas or the Hays Bick). 
enigmatic and with an exotic provenance (exotic 
to me that is). he had impressive gravitas
It isn't impossible that he finally reveals 
intimate thoughts. The poem fragment about his 
abulita quoted in the book's blurb is very 
promising. 

i too had an exotic abulita. I have a coupla 
pictures of her and she was quite a battle 
axe. she once did a weird number on me when 
i was about 6 which made her family laugh.

we did not share a language and i could
not figure out what she wanted me to 
do -- this was in the kitchen of the 
apt where she lived. it was explained to 
me that she wanted me to light the stove 
as she could not it being the Sabbath of 
her people. 

in other words, she wanted me to be
the shabbes (=Sabbath) goy for her, that 
she was overlooking the fact of my being 
her grandchild who would be then committing 
the dire sin that she wanted to avoid doing
at any cost was not lost on my family.

i never made a poem about this (thank
goodness). i tried my hand at poetry 
somewhere in collitch but soon realized
i was barking up the wrong tree.

according to the book's blurb there is
also a literary effusion of his re 9-11. 

his mind was a powerful instrument in 1957,
so i am remaining optimistic. will the 
whole 9 yards about his courtship, conversion
and long marriage to his beloved not be
poeticized. not to speak of his classroom
years. its ok if he leaves out the part about
being a NY Public School superintendant.
of course this would be way harder than doing 
some predictable politically correct Hispanic
goodspeak crapola, so we will have to see

did i tell you about the dream he once 
shared with me? he dreamt that he was in
his English high school classroom but 
that he had a gun. so when the guy in
the back row sassed him, he offed him
and another and another. how does one
get from dreaming that cogently in
1957 to bad poetry on PBS in 2002? 

Mike

"roasted pig / into a hundred pieces / while 
chewing a cigar stump / and saving the crinkly 
cuerito / skin, ears and tail / as candy for 
her grandchildren."