I figured the guitar was finished.
Now he has thrown it in my face
like a drowning girl and I,
who can’t swim, must sort through
memories of Tarzan sliding past crocodiles,
and drop myself like a legume into hero stew
to reach her, the woman he plays
in public, under the spotlight,
above a sweet rumor of bongos.
The thick body, wood and waist,
is happy, for now, for a visit
from his fingertips, those extensions
of his voice loosened on the broad
golden face, the perfect orifice
overarched by the strings.
No wonder artists of number and form
have been so taken by the guitar,
temptation and geometry in one.
The moon comes out dressed in blemish and neon
when Juan Carlos Formell
takes the strings,
takes voice in hand,
and rebuilds the festive labyrinth of risk,
wakes up the whole neighborhood
of squatting notions about feeling
and makes them flee from the history
they have cheapened,
the way a flock of pigeons explodes
when a motorcycle scars
through the plaza like a burin.
And only music remains
the way the sand does after the corrida.