THE LAST FANDANGO

I never had a nickname as a child

But wanted one so badly

I would dress up in outlandish clothes

To go strolling around town.

I tried to approximate the look

And piety of a shepherd once

Wandering into a pizza-parlor

With my staff and headwear

But I could not resist using the stick

To collar a couple of kids

Who tried to steal the show.

No one likes a violent shepherd.

But that was me—all shuck and jive

And no place to holler.

I used to dance alone until

The music finally caught me

Arm in arm at the edge

Of the Pampas with a woman who

Spoke to me the way

Seasons will turn on themselves:

One day you wake-up and the leaves are gone.

I like to dance.

Funny how the gist unravels itself

But I was saying about

Meeting people that sometimes

You introduce yourself to a beautiful woman

And end up dancing underneath a changeling sky—

Outrageous purples and I do not mind

Saying vermilion skies

And dancing like to fill the mute promise

Of a Singer-Sargent painting.

Just flying away.

There you go.

There it is in the lexicon,

There it is. And it might have

Been Santa Fe or Montevideo

But it was neither,

Hell, I have trouble making

Eye contact with the bus driver sometimes

Because I have been some places too long

And I have only spoken of others

Like the friend of a friend.

The point is that it might have been Valparaiso

But that was my Fandango,

My sage-brushed breeze and desert-circus twilight.

Some hair is black enough to last forever

And some dances have rhythms

Put in motion by stars.

Hands touch you and you know

The answer already:

The turn of a hip

The flat of a palm against your back.

One foot just follows the other.

Well, you can watch

With your eyes peeled in the dark

And you can listen until your ears bleed sermons

But I will tell you what,

There is a Fandango being danced

At the edge of the Pampas

And no one is asking names.

"EX-APPARATUS" press release.

Corehaus DC presents “EX-APPARATUS” Friday, March 25th 2011 @ 6-10 PM

On the evening of Friday, March 25th from 6-10PM, Corehaus DC presents “EX-APPARATUS” a collaborative art project by James Kerns & Matt Entwistle. Explore the rusty seams of the city in a three dimensional art and photography exhibit that challenges the conventional iconography of our Nation’s Capital. Both of the artists will be on hand to meet guests; food and refreshments will be served. 

Corehaus DC is a contemporary design gallery in Petworth, DC, which fuses natural, elemental aesthetics with modern sensibilities to create a palette that celebrates beauty and creative re-design. Opened in the fall of 2010, Corehaus DC sells a variety of vintage artifacts, fine art, and home furnishings made from recycled & re-purposed materials.

Corehaus owner James Kerns is a former restaurateur, bicycle messenger, commercial fisherman and co-editor of DC-based Mobile City Magazine who has ridden his bike to Mount Everest base camp and Tierra Del Fuego. James’ 3D sculptures celebrate the enduring utility of found objects and industrial tools as they evolve from  essential articles to time-worn components of the urban landscape; his work reflects a reverence for well-made materials and the natural aesthetic of human invention. James lives with his wife and 3-year-old daughter in Columbia Heights, DC.

Photographer Matt Entwistle is a licensed ship’s captain, Alaska trail-crew leader, outdoor adventure guide and poet who currently resides in the District of Columbia. Matt’s vision captures the spontaneous beauty revealed at the point where past and present collide. His photos bring to life a shifting collage of colors and depths coaxed from the crumbling visages of alleyways, abandoned lots and rust-streaked facades.

Corehaus DC is located in Petworth at 825 Upshur Street, NW Washington, DC. Contact information, directions and more details may be found at: www.corehaus.com, or call James at 202.629.3966.

The Alcalde and the Rooster

The summer sun can bake hours

From the red-clay streets in Mexican canyons,

Crack open the seams and suck the life right out of them.

That’s what made it perfect for exiles before the Alcalde,

Crazed on tequila and the Resurrection

Chased the rooster from the churchyard.

Back then we liked to say Cortez died in a vat of mescal

With two dandy feet draped over the side

And a letter from the pope rolled up and tucked into his boot.

But the Alcalde was not enamored to colonial lore,

He insisted the rooster’s crowing had disturbed his sleep

And when he had succeeded in booting the terrified bird

Over the twisted iron rails he turned to address

The people gathered on the other side.

His countenance, stoic in the aftermath of the altercation with the fowl,

Belied his tattered vest and bare, red-clay dusted feet. 

I was a flame-swallower, he shouted:

A man who walked on glass.

There were nods among the people,

Though it could not be said what was affirmed. 

I was a hungry man, God knows this.

But I never succumbed to the beast.

Because I understand that it is not enough to touch a woman,

It is not enough to hear your name on her lips.

You must never forget the taste of salt

in the hollow curves of her neck or

The brilliant fire-dance of candles

Wrapped in the black folds of her hair.

 Here he dropped his gem-red eyes toward his hands.

 When you touch a woman’s body you must believe it!

You must touch her as though you believe

And you must remember that with your hand

You have been allowed to know the work of God.

And then he turned and walked off into the heat.

Of course there were many questions on the faces of the townsfolk,

Which just as surely were never asked.

Whatever the cause they were quick to point out

That Cortez had it coming anyway,

Though none could fault the rooster for carrying on.

And the alcalde’s pain, though it was a terrible thing to see

Was ascribed to the murderous will of the summer sun.

But there is an expression used by locals now to describe

The way gringos seem to move through the scalded streets

As if they are searching for some missing part of themselves.

‘Cuidado! they will say, ‘He is chasing the rooster from the churchyard.’

Post Mortem

POSTMORTEM

Just so you know

that wasn’t apple juice in my tumbler

it was whiskey.

Once I used ice to curb

the rush of hot liquid down my throat

but the cubes melted so quickly

You might have noted the opacity,

So I started drinking it warm.

When you poured me decafe

late in the afternnon

I gave it to the little Norfolk Pine

you brought to green my living space.

and that woman with the lazy smile and

the plaits pulled back tight across her head

was not my masseuse.

Listen, I know you meant well—I love you too

but there’s no fun accelerating through a curve

if you can already see around the corner.

James Kerns