Garcia Echelon ships the wave
In the beginning, there was stuttering.
Garcia Echelon dismounts from his unicycle
and tackles a running thief, with minimal elegance.
“You, stop!” he says to the moth.
Next month, Garcia has it out
for the produce department.
He is reminded of decapitation.
Lettuce rolls around at his feet,
stalks of asparagus emerge
from his sleeves as if he were some misplaced scarecrow
which tears him up, so Garcia Echelon
steps on a certain tile and begins to slowly disperse
into separate body parts, each gathered together
by an indoor draft that could only come
from the whisperers of his choosing.
When all is said and done
Garcia is round up in a duffle bag
and shipped to Australia
where he reassembles
and combs the beaches for lost artifacts
of the poor and bewildered.
In no time he has many followers.
“Today we will collect sandal straps of centuries ago,”
he shouts. And so begins the rummaging.
When they all converge
upon the section of the beach
marked PESCADO MALO
they flee in terror, throw their arms to the clouds
and scatter equidistant from each other
in a half-arc, like each path was the fold
of a stretched out Chinese fan
in the ominous typhoon
and the rice was breaking
and the children were not yet full of red in their eyes.
Garcia shrugs and packs a mean squirt gun
to spray at the resemblances of self-witchcraft.
Pow splash churgle pow the streams holler.
Even though Garcia is in his fifties
he has the heart of a 6-year old
or a 24-hour locksmith.
Garcia Echelon chews kaleidoscopic barks
When Garcia Echelon buys scotch tape,
he buys it in 10 packs.
The ferns are unifying against me, he thinks.
This time there will be no struggle on my part,
they can have me
launching his feet back onto the ottoman. He sips
from his bucket of water. The bucket
(decorated with gold spikes and inset
with hundreds of diamonds and jewels
from 71 different countries,
some gems certified with exhaustively documented histories,
are willowing in the design
of centaurs eating watermelon and pad thai)
is made of cheap tin.
It’s another lazy afternoon.
Garcia mumbles into a megaphone
that he has mounted
onto his brontosaur skeleton
in the backyard desert.
He has strapped the skeleton
with a leather saddle
that he treated to look like dinosaur leather.
Oh, but that’s impossible, says a voice,
we don’t know what dinosaur leather looks like.
We don’t know a lot of things,
we can only trust the overlap
of our nightmares with the arcs
of the natural, like falling petals
drifting crazily from the hands of lovely pedestrians
or the way that a convex reflection of a landscape
of saguaro cacti spattered with blood
in the dented and overturned 18-wheel gas tanker
seems more real than you and I both.
Garcia then rides off into the pickled ginger sunset
through a wooden gate.
The brontosaur skeleton has been fitted
with knobbies for some serious Xtreme off-roading!
Garcia Echelon and the sure thing
Garcia Echelon anonymously visits a funeral in Iceland
and when they lay the dead woman
down to rest he releases a stork from his mouth
because he confused metaphors.
Still, his condolence stomps on his clumsiness, mammothly,
awkward as that seems. Yet still, he is wearing black, at least.
Still, the trees that stand in witness
over the whole scene are shaking their heads, so
many leaves fall
and some come to rest on the casket
and the contrast of robust roses with broken brown hopeful leaves
is somewhat of a reminder of the way
in which she managed her life
before she crashed her submarine into a helicopter…
Well that’s what it said, Garcia thinks to himself.
He has no idea of his Icelandic.
It’s a tough language, even in the newspapers,
even with impossibly beautiful photographs.
what's it to you?