water works (even in fake fountains)

sojourned against the stone stancher
of an artificial fountain
which i contemplate daily
in between furious fumes from a cigarette
and spellbound sightseers who sto[o]p by
to snap poised pictures
(thereby blocking my vision of this aquatic aberration)
and when i ponder its totality
i instinctively shy away
but its showering neptune image
still adulterates my will
reflected through paneled glass
which washes before me
this treachours torrent of triumph
‘tis merely the white man’s pee
and in this most polluted element
i secrete with dreams of you
i watch the chlorine-filled water
spiraling up into corporate cascades
and performing a coup d’etat
upon formerly placid pools
much like me
creating tempest tubs
with its liquid which engulfs
pure vessels in need
there are many such fake fountains
displayed throughout midtown
some cascade down concrete
as if that were actually meant to be
one such unnatural niagara
which also runs downs stone walls
falls smack in the middle of a “people’s” vest-pocket “park”
a bridge from big business to sam ash’s funky music land
which sells our rhythms and blues
and bomba beats
to guilty aryan liberals
and dark vulcan wanna-bes
said perfidious pool flows over a hollow
through which all must follow
in order to retire remorse
and embrace their lascivious libidos
spilling over and around them
as they wade through its liquid lust
i watch in wonder as it hits plastic
instead of those who saunter through
but, just before i enter
i am heartened to discover
a secret catch fall
where the wanton water
drops discretely onto unsuspecting nomads
an architectural fault, perhaps
or maybe
a stream of nature’s wisdom
i find it as i look down
on the floor
where the liquid has left its mark
i stand there for a moment
letting the corporate droppings wet me
a trader’s torrent of triumph
or, rather, the white man’s pee
and then i enter
and imagine
that the barrier
is not there
and that i am not alone
and you are with me in this cave
and we embrace
as you lick the poisoned moisture from my weakened pores
with a passion so fierce and potent
that no other would dare invade our moor
and i am made frida to your diego
as you are campos to my lebron
and you are a blazing and radiant ra
to their moody blowhard zeus
you are huitzilopochti to their mars
quetzalcoat to their thor
while i am venus
y julia de burgos
a sword to strengthen you
mi agueybana
and we bathe in our true image
replenished by our rainbow mettle
as all others lay in watch
drowning in our secret boriken kettle
yes, indeed, water works
(even in fake fountains)

© 1995 by Marina Ortiz