Tuesday, September 20, 2011


If not Shango then Caesar say “he is one of us and we will save him”. Perhaps not until he stops saying he is the Christ’s. His trust in himself has been eroded and he will not come to us. He is as decadent as Ancient Rome’s abandon, can not deny his roots and knows life is a carnival, a testimonial. Does that make him lost, without grounding or identity?

He found comfort in the rhythms of the Pontiff of Sound. The Godfather welcomed him openly, invited him into his House, and shared his smiles with him. Many others of extraordinary talent continue to praise him for his manners, enjoy his manner and he waits for manna.

No time to teach him growth, they have and he does not realize its process. He believes his benevolence as he imagines a father, shaped by a mother, a brother too. Not lover, not hater, not anything. He feels himself a new creation and longs to belong, but where?

The mind of that boy is damaged some say. Others say it is without discipline. Some say nothing but think of him, not knowing what to think. So many icons and his choices are curious. Dark figures he knows not wholly but burns for a connection without knowing why, distracting himself from finding kinship when all seem different.

There are voices that calm him and torturous choruses he can’t escape; his own sound to him sometimes a curse to others a voice of truth, a thing to comment on. He masks. Turn to him and he will to you. Anything else clean as a new page upon which a story is told, made up, believed. Sanctus.

Like a well you spring, kinetic forces propelling a thing that is not to be owned or hindered. “ah just shit de”, it had to be said. Candido Moldanado was an old, classic New York cabbie. He’d often say “Candido Moldanado tiene un coolo cacado.” I'd rode with him many times.

He should be a boxer the man told my mother. Not Ogun? Yemanja? Not the giants who have walked before?

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