Under the Black Umbrella
by Micahel Krekorian
She paints the profile. Her heart is made of iron. She becomes a cover girl who throbs around in a variety of backgrounds. Her background becomes downtown Havana. Cuba museum motor vehicles weave the downtown streets. Feel the part-time machine. Feel the heat of each motor vehicle as it passes you by. Not an accident, never a return to the center of things. Her brain turns on then hums like an electric machine. She sings, she moves in time to a love song that's on top of the world.
Cuba here and Cuba there. Listen to the chrome plated memory of a new American dream. Her baggy pants, loose fitting shirt and backpack conceal her implements. One two three four, she sings and moves the deep straits of Florida.
See her paint the efforts of one community down home on one corner of the Quarto Camino. The shadows get down and long on the Morro Castle. She's part cat and part machine. She assimilates and becomes another car crazy American. On the streets, she shows off long red scars that track across her arms and shoulders.
He nods his head up and down. He is all seeing. He is all ready behind the wheel of a vintage American vehicle. He is another peacemaker coming to a new millennium party.
"Quarto Camino free the market daisy chain," he yells loud and clear. He might head up to the north or he might track on down to the south if something crazy is going on. It's the premiere new year in the new age and he's down and out inside the hard wire.
The now cables hear all his thoughts across the wine dark thin air. "What I mean," he says, "is that you, I mean you, should withhold information and give the wrong dates and times so no boy or girl in this whole wide world knows anything anymore." He places a finger in his ear and just stands there sullen but not outspoken.
Away, away. Storm troopers stand in the light of the high noon day. They move like schools of fish centered on the paying souls contained in the market square. Cult bank techs rectify this night after his night. Now her new moon controls her tides. She wears forever a tattooed chain on her left ankle, a pin and silver ring in her eyebrows and lips. Cool real cool bird lives down the Cuba way. Wire, wire and more real wire.
"We will wait here too, still all together. Only if you don't mind," she says.
Listen now. People gather in the shadow the Morro Castle makes over the land and the sea. She wears the pants and she wears the skirt and hat that means she looks hard like meat dangling on a string.
He feels evil when he plays it. He's been eighteen before staring down the tube of death into the white light at the end of the tunnel. Now he is a wire. She dances the tune deep in her synapses. He offers a massive proposal to a hard-luck town. The storm troopers ice China and then Cuba. He spins the black umbrella over his head and a crack appears somewhere at the end of his mind.
Here now here is the love story. Not the love story of the past with foreplay, but the new age beat of the machines they call alive. We is not you or I. She waits to hear the sound of the snap from the end of a long rope. Part of the distance closes each day and only here on dry land does the shadow of her castle grow.
Hey you, ever hear a sheep save its neck by singing a simple song? She finds refuge in the USA. Men lie more. No, women want more. Now right here every tree under the black umbrella represents a great loss.
He looks to her eye to eye. When she works, then the whole world works. Then she stands under the Lion's Gate. A hard luck town gets wired for light and sound. The whole thing gets in his eyes. Listen: Now she loves the entire free market world.
He clears his throat. He looks up to the sky, to air now thick and to the black umbrella parked above his head. The shadow of a lone car moves away from him very fast.
"I am the king of the world," he says.
"El Rey del Mundo," he says, " on super sabato, Saturday," he says. Saturday where the small light of hope hides in his heart. He walks in a fog of his own design on a street that vanishes in its straightness. "Now where are all the alarms?" he says to himself.
His kind of former world used to stand safe high on the Hittite plains, now called Anatolia or historical Armenia. Or Kurdistan, homeland of the Kurds. His analytical engine rests safe under his black umbrella. He waits. He rests as her new moon rises.
Away away, the nights are gay, and the people grow into a single shadow warrior under Morro Castle. She says that the end is near. She is torn in the middle, she thinks like a machine. She lies naked on the floor. This is how she feels. No one thing can remain at rest forever. Her machine parts detect movement. Outside sounds become lucid trapped inside a building with very cool surface temperature.
Hear this now. She waves a flag in her left hand, the wind turns to the south and to the sky itself. Her dark self moves only slightly in her direction. Then she gets worse. One layer of duplicity hides her story. Now, in the light of a new moon, call her story the story of the motherless child, el Nino del Sabato.
Don't worry now, help is on the way. Don't skip this please. He's a scientist, he makes a germ to be used as a weapon. His heaven is the poured concrete office building with a twenty-four hour fountain running silent but true. He understands water. She understands semi-emulation. His presence is expected and her presence is required.
El Rey del Mundo, king of the world reports to work on time. He asks himself, Is he in the appropriate mental and physical condition for work? Start now with all the wrong answers. She becomes iced then tells a touching story about her return to the old run down neighborhood. He calls her his motherless child.
"White on white on white," she says. Her mood swings cause a shortened attention span.
The man under the black umbrella clears his mind. He steps into the swings of the wind and becomes a hollow command shell. He calls itself El Rey del Mundo, King of the World. His circuits unfold from the inside like an automatic water fountain. His great warrior spirit becomes seamless.
El Rey del Mundo. He hangs tough while she falls for the tallest boy in the whole wide world. Then she goes wireless. Against the evening sky, he explains how his dream has been revised upward. She regards the old saw concerning the chicken who never crosses the wire.
This man with the black umbrella, he falls in love with the idea of water. She is reminded of her tyrannical cigar smoking father. Overnight is an expression that no longer exists. Together he and she pull on things and then throw away the strings. Old American motor vehicles transcend all tourist attractions on the streets of downtown Havana. She is caught in his dream, in the pulse and the pull of her new moon. Damn it's a burning hell. Now only a single shadow that falls on the rocks around Morro castle. Wait now. Time will pass. Consider the cost of one man waging war against the sea.
"Don't quit now," she yells, "big changes are on the way".