IF IT IS MAD, YOU CAN LIVE.

Upon receiving a cryptic text message in the summer of 2007 I couldn't help but be reminded of our introduction to Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. That mad poetic voice presented to Willard on a tape recorder came similarly to me via words on my phone from my friend in the Peace Corps. In trying to engage in a more matter-of-fact kind of dialog, I just kept receiving responses with more wild words written from a $2 hotel room in Esmereldas, Ecuador.
I soon became worried about the sanity of my friend. Had he too, left the ranks and become a worshiped god in a distant jungle sitting in dark room reading poetry? I had to find out for myself, so I took my own Heart of Darkness inspired journey.

The following writing is a collection of poetry written by Ryan Fitzgerald during his two year stint in Ecuador as a Peace Corps Volunteer. This writing was passed to me through email, regular terrestrial mail correspondence and some of it I secretly copied from his small handmade notebooks while he was taking a salty shower or texting spanish to a local cutie. And as for the worshiped god in a distant jungle reading poetry in a dark room...not far from the truth.

10.02.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Shored at Playa de Oro
Once mined for nuggets of gold
Now they talk in pebbles and dust

09.30.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Cops on horse-back
Watching urban volleyball
Make players proud to play

09.15.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I’m going to wash a basketful of fruits
With my hand each one rinsed clean
And shining
And walk
Down the long city blocks
from New York to America
To the front door of a dame
I’m digging
Ring the buzzer
And run, jump behind a shrub
And watch her at the basket of fruit
Crouched with a bright apple in her hand
She smiles looking out
And takes a bite!
My god it must be delicious I think
Her lips
and I tell you I died right there
at that basket of fruit

09.11.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Two horses died
One bit by a snake
The other overdosed with vitamins

The boy who could fly
The girl who spelled freedom

09.10.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

When was the last time you lied down under
A pair of mature fruiting trees
To escape raw city

-

Valley landscape-
City professionals scuff leather shoes, rockers, indigenous vendors and street people, students in uniforms, rucksackers other such ramblers and lovers, fabulous kissing faces, kissing a whole trole ride long and it makes me sick. Envious. Elated. That that is love and is love hope and drive. There is this city. It has grit to wash daily store managers sweep sidewalk that stretches the length of their storefront. They pour buckets of soapy water to make the grit go away but it stays as bodies are in motion, are transported long distances as they scurry or scuttle on and off metrobuses up or down stairwells, elevators through – in and out of each other a giant weaving of humanity that hardly rests, hell it hardly breathes.

09.03.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Think about this,
that the best haiku was never written
Li Po came close until he fell in the drink
Chasing the shining moon

The seven lamps’
Seven stars
Make lacerations in his right hand

Sittin’ waiting for my threads
To dry at the laundrymat
I drink that ol’ Chai

Ground coffee is medicine
Sit anywhere, but lower to ground
And embrace all pure experience

Did you hear Paul Simon
Chanting through the Champlain Valley?
I did, on a suburban stoop

Rain is exciting
Means
I have to stay here listening
To Neil Young

There is a lot
Of foolishness
That I’d like to confront

A city and its mountain
Or a mountain and its city
Is bathed daily with precipitation
.
Low mountain pass
In the Paramo
I want to roll down

08.24.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The ocean’s gust
One of its tempers
The Earth, man moved

Elder couple
Seated on deck of beach house
Legs folded—a sting of salt on their cheeks

I long silver spider
Not muddy puppy!
Or some greasy junco

08.22.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Imagine riding down a Vermont road
And seeing the bamboo huts and shacks
Of Manabi and Esmeraldas provinces.
I would like though, and very much
My gal sitting with our son,
the two in silly-patterned mud boots,
out to check on the pumpkins and gourds
I will make a pumpkin bread and
Serve it to my wife and son
They will drink long of cow’s milk

08.17.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Second muerto in Mache
Though things lighter in sun
Mientras la muerte
My heart beats irregularly
I like the ungrateful can’t go to visit the family in their wooden farm-house
Just ask myself sin fin
Cuando termina la violencia, el odio

08.15.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I want a summer storm in the Vermont north that I know
To watch it from in-doors through aged windowpane
A thick glass that divides this nature from that other nature
original nature

Through a large window there is electric chill
Like a mountain varmit under wooded shelter look out
Passively with paws beneath herself, thinking
Perhaps something profound of the hunt, learning
[Through patterns] of leaf formations,
the leaf’s veins, how water rolls or settles, down,
with the birds above and further off what do they tell her

Is it I then in the leaf litter
warmed by earth and sapling maple cover
backed against a fallen log
and her that sits in the antique arm chair with a lace trim
and smells more of nature and infinitely more appealing
and who is more found, folded up, watching the same summer rain?
If it is I then in the leaf litter,
What of the indoor furniture
And of in-doors themselves?

-

Peruvian marijuana
I remember I got lost
In a dark desert town

Crawling through
Small deer fields
One either gets a hard-on or sees a deer

I find my mind entertaining
There’s me
There’s my body
I wait to see what my mind’s going to say

 

08.14.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Watch wither
Watch rot
There are hundreds of thoughts
Hundreds of illuminations that arrive
And unrecorded they dwell,
travel the mind’s rivers
Some dry up on the mind’s banks or in the shallows
Of a pebble stream
Others covered in sedimentation
and work their way to a mouth of a green emerald lake
That flows forward always
And the algaes that have built up are shed, decompose
And given to light!
Do they make sense or create sense
simplify sense
Or are some thoughts not words at all
And if in words are they all riddles
Suffering from their encryptions
That do little to alleviate
And unreceived—futile?,
either way
There are continuous travelings
and unravelings

08.08.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

With a friend walked past a feral dog with a large open growth on its cheek
she says ‘is that an earring?’
I have loathed and itched with hate
how many street dogs that I had to fight off,
had to watch mount both sexes,
watched wither

08.01.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Little mountain town
is cool but reassuring that the village feels these coastal gusts;
it blows through the quiet blocks rustles the thatched roofs, hanged clothing,
rustles the men’s and women’s souls whether sinning or in vain or soul singing
they must be startled or started—all
Our subject seated on third story balcony contrives the following below,
orange vendor
what does he keep chilled in a Styrofoam cooler
he passes a mirror vendor and sees one that makes him look more beautiful than he can remember.
Everything was more beautiful than the subject could paint because it breathed and rotted
and there were consequences
—repeat

07.30.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Whalehunt on Altamar
We on the high seas of the Pacific of this globe
Our Capitan is hungover from a few bottles of local sugarcane liquor
we anticipate a long run past the bay from which we departed
and out to the northern route of the mating humpbacks.

07.16.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

And then as I was washing clothes
I had wetted my sleeves and my front,
that sick nino gasped and his eyes rolled back forever
and he lay back on the couch,
how alive he still looks,
fresh like a long fish that a father just netted in the estuary
and lifeless
And how we end every day

07.11.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

‘Son, are you okay? Do you want to fuck a German?’

07.07.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Caught two raspabalsas on the point in Mompiche
foulhooked them both
wrapped them in a toquilla leaf to take to the pueblo
and give to a local friend to prepare it

07.03.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Big shadows of hands
and notebook I hold
And few thoughts
Bed’s too big for just one

-

This is independence
Perhaps the first time
I felt it
my heart swells for excite
Of fireworks on black-night backdrop
What does it represent but any small triumph

04.24.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I barely wear shoes
My feet- my muse

06.23.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Listening to Toots and The Maytals.
Got a jungle army hat on.
Smoked with two chicos and cracked open coconuts,
the sweet water on our chins.
Amusing dance to American music.
Came more revelations.
I am a philosopher.
I have some massive roots.

06.11.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I live in a seedy town in Ecuador

06.10.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

In the community gardens we have ripe Guanabana,
Guayaba, Passion Fruit, Lime, Orange,
and in a few months grapefruit and Guava.
I believe things are fine.

04.27.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

From the satire jungle I write
Insomniac verses
Lie in be with no underwear
And mosquitoes swarm outside of bug net
And eerie breeze that I didn’t feel kicked up
Curtains that divide my room from another.
Am I Waiting for the family to arrive so the house sleeps
Are they having a séance outside
stirring up the spirits
They are strange and light but good spirits I feel
Creaks and cracks a chirp on the roof downstairs Kitchen floor
this night won’t sleep!
At 10:32 in the Country and the country won’t sleep!
Goddammit is there anything that will sleep?
A baby will sleep
a young chicken who found a corner to roost will sleep
But we that are stirred by that that is stirring—wake and wonder
And chat and try and make it go away
But it’s fascinating and we are curious still—
But on the verge of tragic
almost that I would let Something slip in this intense alertness—
awakened
But now fearful that there is consequence
And karma [and in what phase is the moon?]

04.13.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

the stars are brilliant
and moon! you put an awakening light
on evening hill and village

04.11.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

It is nearing the end of mango season
so I’m trying to eat as much as I can
Though it is not that painful because orange season follows—
and a girl wants to be with me

01.10.08//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

the girl is sleek
poor sheep
—
there are big clocks
that tell the time—around the world
insisting that time is a circle
—
So I’m in Ecuador
drinking a bud-eyeser
in front of McDonalds
—
Girl boy
kiss thought
rain landscape

12.25.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

White horse in dark highway jungle—secondary forest—
on both sides—wild silver horse stolid and alone
against black asphalt and rugged bus tumbling at it
flooding it with light that is ghostly
and surreal

12.18.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

These buses carry quiet farmers-or quieted-across the countryside along Pacific ocean. We are all thirsty even the black dog in a pillow case-he too, is quiet. There is green and the conscious plant brightly blooming trees that might very well be painted. There is poignance in the slight sun and with all the windows wide in this rig we breeze south neatly cut bamboo houses dot the hills-much of the landscape bared to grow grass that cow will see to-even the soccer fields they will level-vendors at times get on the bus to sell french fries and sausage 50 cents a pop-watermelon, mango-there is another sort of thirst on this bus a flesh thirst, material thirst, that deepens my roots here in a cooling-quieting instant-means I carry a lot I bear a load that is meditation-it is solitary as it should be-as it is shared

12.14.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

More observations on sitting on the ground—its
raw pressure earth pushing up course rock form
wood planking in country cabin set on shrimp farm
lined with hot pepper plants and an island in the pond
with an orange tree on it
at the cabin young wife fixes lunch timidly
I can tell she is beautiful from behind
lifting and lowering a knife to a few vegetables
we sit on the floor to be served the young wife
sits at the opposite wall every few moments
glances at me with my dish spooning more hot sauce
over beef and rice—I begin talking my
mechanical Spanish
when I look to her she smiles big and embarrassed
looks down at her hands what does she feel?
the father of her child stands
arms folded at windowsill
looking out the distant waters of Rio Boca de Tigua
which will take you river travel to Chachis—bird hunters
they are humble folk—

12.09.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Write middle of the night stoned
stoned of long bus travels and talk
fresh from a shower not knowing where the water comes from
not knowing neighbors lives of neighbors
what theater must go on beyond these walls
through fence and patio of ornamental plants—
did the neighbor fuck his wife in that upstairs master bedroom
the light always glowing from that submarine window—
fuck her looking at the design on the pillow—some art deco
soon to be post post-modern patterning
fuck her until he came not feeling—with a raw sting
on the tip of his dick
of guilt—that is the mystery of not knowing of another
not 50 yards from you sleeping, fucking, building decks,
having guests, photo albums
lives full of routine and personal complexity and weight—
significance for 30 years and I know his name maybe
and he pretends—in conversation—
that he wants to steal away from his kids
and go fly-fishing—I bet he’ll never pick up the rod again
except to indicate which things he wants in the yard sale—
make it another 30 years and I’ve forgotten
but sometimes wish I could watch them
what do they eat
what’s a typical American dish—
and what kind of neighbor will I be to you now?

12.08.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Get high and read Desert Solitaire
sit in purple hammock
there are morning birds looking for mangrove
no fruit grows on t.v. antennas
and Ecuadorian folk music chatters—out there
out there there’s pulse there is this self-aware
human agency to hammer at a wall of cement
do small errands for rice or sugar
tap a tire down the street with a stick for play for hobby
there’s a small black gang of them
the gang leader’s name is Huanere Falcone, he eats raw shrimp
from the river

12.07.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I am shallow
I crave-silent yabyum
and dunkin donuts

11.16.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Mango trees are ripe mothers
are colorful eggs
that are fertile where they hang
—
´You scared me with your magic
but we’re okay
I stayed in the bed—receiving your magic´

11.12.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Escalinata Otavalo—lookout with wineshot eyes
to all green hills that envelope this town of
mountain commerce
I hear Quichua voices backs turned—sounds like
they’re chomping on food. pig fat!
´that’s quite a profound sound for such a scrappy little beast´
the cocks’ crow out from hillside
between pecks on grass patios

11.09.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I put my sunned hands at the page
to put down distinct threads that kept with me—
there are bloodshot eyes there are candlelit figures
silhouettes of beer bottles and men’s faces
there is sun at my face, it gives me healthy glow
the saltwater put grit on me
yester.noon on a Francis Macomber hunt for crab
combed beach for coconuts and cracked open the sweet innards
with the machete I wear at my hip

11.07.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

(collaborative)

We sit overcooking the Canoa surf
our eyes to the sky we notice
the grand frigate birds circle so high
making conch shell designs in the sky
a man below whistles a simple tune
one we may have heard so loud
and so live in a Cuenca dance club
so many nights before
and so this morning we seek
a bit of peace
away from the drunken firework fight
and policia roundups of last night

We seek refuge from black sorceresses
that charm the boys bellies full of fish
and minds ruined for a girl’s thigh
a bonfire with the local surfers and
crazy folk lighting fireworks—
and sitting we cook our own alimento
and feed it to our psyche
fill our brains with elaborate questions
biographies of forgotten bird species
and think deeper than one should
in any organ of yours
in the membrane
the good working flesh of that organ
a warmth or a wet and sturdy life-charge

—

Tonight I’m Peter Pan
dashing in a town or canoe
with a beautiful darlin´
from a past life encounter
Tonight I’m Sir Edmund Hilary
and Tenzing Norgay seated with notepads
observing the natives mating habits
the way I wear my hair and see the world
I travel through my lens from a lookout
my three porters lie chatting

10.17.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

What if we took a canoe
downtown
Benito and I
down the city canal
the ´ol Mississip.—the freedom river
to where classy damas drink national beers
and eye us from the corners
I’m at the bow standing sounding off
forward! to the pulse of Quito!
Benito at the stern steady forward
steady strokes pops a Cuban drum-keys-horn in his
printable flesh—thinks Cuban faces like blessed pirate
thinks this steamboat will never again
forward! keep pace!
now a turn and the centre opens to us
bright in lamp light and a reunion of voices
the urbanite chorus
Benito splashes a bit with the oars in childish ecstasy
—opens up to us and lets float
thus illuminates hearts how a million strangers
—who have chosen to mountain walk—
meet this river travel
Benito and the Colonel!
there would be eventual arrival
for us a welcoming—we walk through crowds
but their feet dry.

10.07.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

A man in bright Umbro shorts
no pockets—carries
change in his ear

10.03.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

slow truck passes
by comedor—passes gray
a piece of steel—as a tank
rolls like big brother
just taunting—something dying
or ready
inside

I laugh at leaning bamboo house
watching the news
on a color T.V.
the tide will take it
before dawn

09.30.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Two old farmers
heads bowed with wrinkled cowboy hats
in moonlight—or street lamp
drunk before the elections tomorrow
or they are sailors
—
And when the cops rolled by
to question the two men
(it’s illegal to drink openly, to be drunk during election periods)
—the officer told one to blow into the officer’s eyes
the man raised his stare from the ground
where things didn’t spin so much
and gave a big snort of his nose in the officer’s eyes
—
Or it was four or five men playing guitar
singing old pasillos and drinking small bottles
of sugarcane liquor
just to help their voices—and maybe the old cowboys
were there too
or just paired plants in the night
obscure sort of bowing heads almost touching something delicate
and heavy as guilt
empathy
relief—that I’m not drunk cowboy nor parecida plant

07.19.07//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I write haikus selfishly:

I sprayed organic pesticide
on a Thursday morning cockroach
blinded the thing

How happy eating
Cornflakes make me
what if I could fly?

There are seven chemicals
on this red apple
I eat it thinking—it’s pretty delicious

Turtles lay eggs
on tourist beach
where Teddy Roosevelt stole breakfast

 

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////