and rotting quickly,
each wrinkle on
her silvery black face
tells tales of years
stacked upon years,
tears piled on tears
joy and pain
toil and bitter rain Read the rest of this entry
Portraits of Colombia, a set on Flickr.
I took these photos while on vacation in Medellin, Colombia in December 2013. This collection shows the diversity of the common Colombian. While on vacation, I encountered so many warm and welcoming people of different shades. I chose to make the photos all black and white to remove color barriers, because while I was there, I didn’t sense any color differences. This series represents the unity I felt while walking the streets of Medellin. These are the beautiful people.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if Anoushka Shankar could perform a rendition of God Bless America at an MLB all-star game, her Sitar in hand, strumming a world beat, with a drummer at her side, adding color to our song? What about Femi Kuti, there at center field of the Yankee Stadium with his African rhythms? Why can’t Los Juanes love America too, or a Mariachi band? Celia Cruz would’ve been great, with Tito Puente on timbales. Why not Juan Luis Guerra? That might actually be ideal since large portions of MLB players are Dominican anyway. It might make them feel more at home. Ironically, the same people bemoaning that “Mexican” Marc Anthony singing the anthem are cheering for our darker Dominican brothers like David Ortiz and Melkys Read the rest of this entry
Bill has been on the block since Vietnam, and has seen it go from White to Brown. He grew up across town, in a one-bedroom with his mother, when Bergenline was still Italian. He saw the first wave of Cubans come in the late 60’s, and felt right away this meant trouble. He watched as the Marielitas turned the town Brown in the 80’s, while the Italian exodus moved west to the burbs along route 3, where it was still White. But Bill refused to leave. He was a Veteran and the only thing he knew how to do was to stay and fight for what was his. At least that’s what he likes to tell people. Read the rest of this entry
The sun rises over the drought stricken hills hovering Los Pinos Del Eden, a small farming town borne from the shadows of La Descubierta, Dominican Republic, where Refugio, climbing out his mosquito net, has just wakened from reminiscent dreams of New York City, fantasizing about the corner of 8th Ave and 6th, eating two Papaya hotdogs with sweet onions, ketchup and a piña colada. It’s a bustling New York Saturday night. Fast motorcycles line the Avenue. Women in tight shorts and fat asses walk to Club Bad. The incense man across the street peddles fragrances and who knows what else. Old vinyl records spread across the sidewalk are looking for a home. Refugio is walking tall in tight leather pants, motorcycle jacket, dark shades, five o’clock shadow and mohawk. His Harley is pulled up beside five pimp’d out street bikes. He climbs on his hog, revs the throttle, and shoots north up 6Th Ave toward Washington Heights.
It’s about 6:15 in the morning. You’re drunk and you’re high. And you’re in Chicago. You’ve just stumbled out of some club. Somewhere. You can’t really remember. And you wobble on down to the corner, scanning the streets around you.
You reach out your slumbering arm to hail the first cab you see. He pretends not to see you. But you don’t think anything of it. Again, you reach out. Again, another cab passes and again and again and again.
And you know your neon red jacket is glowing majestic sparkles off the rising sun, so it’s impossible for them not to have noticed you standing there all shiny and shit; your shades silvery cool like mirrors reflecting Jim Morrison before he became fat and sloppy. Read the rest of this entry