By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
even the indigent forgot their misery
"At twenty for a hundred,
gentlemen," he declared.
And patrol cars, ambulances, fire trucks came
and Maritza, la loca, running after the seagulls
and Wichinchi Prenda Fu singing guaguanco
and Pedro Marijuana hawking his wares
and Eddy Campa, the poet, reciting his poems.
while the usurer,
that old falcon,
in his feigned sleep,
thought about the black woman who took him in
as a boy, when he begged in the streets of Havana.
"Everything I have, little mother,
is for you when I die."
That's what he said.
What's become of Papiro the usurer's truck?
The red double cab truck, a Ford.
At six in the evening, the corner in front of OTI Coin Laundry is crowded. Men of all ages gesticulate with hands holding brown paper bags that shield their liquor, recounting the legends of their lives in their native lands. The young ex-con Campa saw this morning sits on the curb on the opposite street corner, talking with a friend about cocaine.
A shifty man in a baseball cap, whom Campa calls "the mysterious Sherman," approaches the bench. Campa says Sherman was a political prisoner for eighteen years. Since then he's been "resolving." A thick-limbed woman in a sleeveless blouse stands in the garden of the house across the street. She's Otilia, for whom OTI Coin Laundry is named. Campa refers to her husband as Mr. Dinero, and says he owns most of the buildings on the block.
Campa notes that his neighborhood has its share of criminals as well as businessmen, and that sometimes they're one and the same. "Still, in these marginal neighborhoods is where the purest forms of humanity exist," muses the writer. "Here a thief doesn't have to pretend he's honest. There's a nobility here even if it may not look it."
Campa is pleased he's been able to bring a little attention to the area through his poems. The other day, for example, he was interviewed by Radio Martí, and he's looking forward to his Miami Book Fair appearance. But he sometimes worries about the future of his neighborhood. Especially troubling to him are rumors of urban renewal plans that may or may not include an expressway extension through this part of Little Havana.
"The only thing that lasts is what is written by poets," Campa declares. "And maybe that's my only reason for being. What would have happened if I didn't write this book? Two hundred years from now, when this is all an empty lot or maybe a great metropolis, nobody would have known that here lived a group of people who died not for love but for the lack of it."
He takes a pair of thick-lensed, wire-rim glasses from his shirt pocket, pulls a copy of Little Havana Memorial Park from his plastic bag, and begins to read, narrating the future of his neighborhood. His clear voice rings along the avenue.
Now everything is different on Eighth Avenue and Third Street in Little Havana.
But, underneath that expressway
below the skyscrapers,
remains the dollar store owned by Paco, the
who one day, after relating his adventures in
told us, almost crying, about the time that
Mas Canosa informed him
that he could no longer be his friend.
and the cafeteria-Laundromat of Oti, the wife
of Mr. Dinero,
who didn't wait until her husband was buried
to marry Danton,
the policeman with blue eyes,
with whom she lived for the rest of her days;
And La Fritanga owned by Samuel, native of
where they sold the best coffee in the Southwest
and also the best marijuana;
and the pharmacy where "Docto," was so
until the afternoon when he disappeared
reappearing three days later on the evening news
for money laundering
Ah! and the Martí Park baseball field,
so well cared for by that the ex-Almendares
raking it with his old Buick
(dusting it with dreams)
There's also the gray house crowned with
and cocaine, belonging to Ruben, the Sandinista,
who ended up in jail;
and La Cadena Supermarket (Latin butcher),
owned by Sr. Valdivia and his partner Arturito,
who shut themselves
in the office together for long hours to count
out the register;
and the curb
the imperishable curb
of the afternoons (tedious wall
marked by my footprint)
in which Wichinchi, Ordonez, el Puro;
Quintana; Orlando, the Ecuadorian;
Miranda, the elusive; Pedro the blowtorch;
the atomic Jorge Avila and many more
we sat to simply
watch the hours flow