Os Malditos (or the Damned)

VI.

We were young, in the time of life scored to popular music,
marked            unrelenting                 marked restless           marked wicked
like Prince’s purple smile and too-tight pants.
My beautiful Azorean prince neglected the vague spaces in the words,
missed the instinct to long where something is withheld:
Do you want him or do you want me?
Because I want you,
because I want his assembly,
desire what he gathered about himself:
the forked approach to the lintel of his mother’s house,
the smattering of old Iberian last names         the nautical telescope     some fado songs.
We were more Purple Rain than Mystic Pizza,
thankful that the girls of São Miguel don’t fall so easy for Anglo guys.
But what about our boys?
The movies are quiet on the subject as are all the books written in English,
and since we can’t marry their money,
we have no idea where to look, nor no one to ask.
They brave our neighborhoods [those malditos who belong better than we do]
thinking they own the place, something nagging in their looks,
the word “poor” like a pubic hair in the backs of their mouths.
Sadly, our displays fall far short of the mark:  the mills       the tenements
the disappointments
the entire pall of appearances
leading to the simple and obvious fact that
our food is not for eating;
our clothes are not for staining,
and our rooms are not for living.

VII.

Os Malditos expect soap opera, one of my grandmother’s novelas:
a girlfriend needing to be placated, a wronged “best friend” waiting to be mollified—
someone angry at being paid less attention to [though they were equal draws].
But the choreography ended up being relatively simple.
What was not easy was the declension from trio to duo        from 3/4 time to 2/2 time  from mazurka to polka.
We hated dancing couples;
even as children we danced a clever three-way with the holy ghost in church basements,
got into the groove in the key of B;
B for Boy you’ve got to prove / Your love to me        B for Boy what will it be?
B for Touch my body, and move in time.
Dancing couples was like being forced to perform in too-big a playing space:
lights scorching          scenery heroic             orchestra pit bottomless.
He was a bulge of timbre                   she a desire of range            I a tease of dynamics.
In a world playing unisons, even a major chord can sound like dissonance.
I am willing to admit that maintaining the unities of action
demands a steady hand and a clear eye, and
sometimes it requires making more than minor cuts.
Often, we find it difficult to decide how to open:
to enchant with a storm?   to prophesy like a cauldron?  to ghost among the ramparts?
Personally, I like to interrupt a climactic departure [on cue]
and then pretend surprise.

—

Carlo Matos has published ten books, most recently The Quitters from Tortoise Books. His work has appeared in such journals as Another Chicago Magazine, Rhino, Diagram, and PANK, among many others. Carlo has received fellowships and grants from CantoMundo, the Illinois Arts Council, and the Sundress Academy for the Arts. He currently lives in Chicago, IL, is a professor at the City Colleges of Chicago, and is a former MMA fighter and kickboxer.