Maroon City

Maroon City

We haven't seen the typhoons, not once, but in August and September
when the clouds attack the asphalt walkways lining the gutters of this
city, you could be walking with a cup of coffee through an open,
shell-domed church abutting the restaurants where pesos and
dollars are thrown into gold-crusted collection plates, and feel
nothing but light shadows and the push of the eastern wind.

You probably think I'm crazy for refusing man's dominion over this
archipelago, but the clouds here have eyes. Look at the thousands
of beady spies that survey the traffic, goods buying goods, plaid
greetings pitched into the sun. Tips of buildings without fingers to
lasso in the whiskers of currents. Fragile glass yields.

This is no man's land. The triangles of manicured foliage are
old pirate haunts, ships' plunder thrown into wet salt,
waterlogged in algae graveyards finally washed ashore,
unharmed. Remember that lives whittled from hedonism have souls
whittled from the spoils. When we finally become whole, come, storm,
fly to this capital city, take our umbrellas, and tear our lives into this rain.