Mana

Over the bay of Samaná. Silver-braided waves of squeamish foam, salt and sun, crashing killing suicidal.

We can blindly glare at the curvy masses of breathing obsidian as laid dying on the shore, girls, bathing in the overheated air of this volcanic rock, floating body of sand, death and obese tourists, white demons infatuated by the coal vaginas of the pernicious local fauna.

Those women, growing like pimples over the melting streets of the Caribbean dream, scenario imagined during the slumber of a madman, painted by an old toothless man living on a twisted bench that heavily resembles the island itself; these women, cannon fodder for carnivals, money eating machines, Watussian creatures of mesmerizing expressionless glances, girls, that throw rocks at guayabas in the afternoon sunset and scream merengue crescendos in the middle of the night; neolitic exclamations of religious worship can be heard from deep inside the libidinous universes of shady aparta-hotels.

Vat these women want? Asks the german, what these bambine want, asks the old italian nose; fascist pretzel tearing itself away from that squashed face while it asks what these ragazze want and so on and so on until desire, or Desiré, suffocates their will.

Beautiful seducing and thunderous beings, girls, religious mothers of one handed children, looking for their things, zinc roofed fincas, golden gilded passports and such wines and such cheeses.

Morally feeble creatures pullulating teeming swarming shitting over and on and under those sneaky clusters of grey alleys, girls, street fetuses of paroximal melancholia hovered by nomadic blue painted houses. These are their homes, these are their things.

A man could get lost in Samaná, knowingly.

A man could reach an arm to the sky and grab a coco.

A man could blindly grope the air and piñas and lechosas will inhabit the palm of his hands like lovesick gazelles.

Rum and tits, desperations and madness, drunk bums licking their own bitter, tricolored, festered wounds; social scarred elephants of the five hundred years rape, praying to go through your wormhole, just a minute, maybe just seconds. Girls.

I'll give it all away papi, the blinding and reverberating sun, waves, the floating coconuts like decapitated haitians, in exchange for your magnificent metallic doves. Shiny birds gorging the gleam of time, drawing beautiful entrenchments of pristine smoke in the sky. Girls.

I'll exchange it all away for it. Flying like a swallow

                                                                                    the pill of escapism.

Beware. Rejoice. Eight legged girls of fright.

Here in Samaná a man can bite hard on the curse of flesh, and be rewarded with the most ephemeral and glorious of all the infinites.