i’ve seen you in el oro ecuadorian plantation encased in plastic, no beauty in bunches of wrappers strewn on earth underneath, because profit is everything, exports to united states & european union, consumers pull back yellow peels, reveal that white, sweet appetite for mixing with peanut butter or in milky cereal, loved for potassium, fluid balance, lower blood pressure, means we won’t die, not from eating this soft south american wunderkind, edible prodigy, machete hacked plant, cherished comestible.
Tag: Ecuador
20 One-Liners After Reading Joe Brainard
Winter
Ice is more likely than snow.
Summer
Sun, sand, and shore, what you thought.
Writing
Is only part of what I am thinking.
Today
Will be like tomorrow, but different.
In the country
Deer cross roads and sometimes die.
Recipe
One part chocolate, one part graham cracker, one part marshmallow, add flame first.
That feeling
When you just know.
Ecuador
The place where a cow fell on me but missed.
Happiness
Is a good Beatles song or a warm puppy.
Money
Do pennies really matter anymore?
Lake
Powell, Crater, Radnor, Tahoe, Champlain
The Sky
Isn’t falling, although it sometimes feels that way.
Carrots
Taste best with hummus.
Modern Times
Everyone has the answer, no one has the answer.
Real life
When your tooth is being extracted.
Loyalty
Is canceling all of your plans.
Something to think about
If you are really really quiet, you probably already know.
Virginia
I am always a young person here.
Human nature
To believe in the divine.
Stars
The phosphorescent paint in constellation stories.
Amigos de las Americas
Amigos de las Americas had a tremendous impact on my life. I worked with the nonprofit as a Volunteer in Azuay, Ecuador (1990), in Lempira, Honduras as a Field Supervisor (1993), as an Assistant Project Director in El Oro, Ecuador (1996), and as a Project Director in Villarrica, Paraguay (1998).
Baseball In Ecuador
The summer of 1990 I lived and worked in the Andes Mountains near Cuenca, Ecuador. The main focus was building latrines and planting trees, but we also taught baseball to the local kids. The bat was made of bamboo, and the ball was a rock, both wrapped in duct tape.
When the Roses at 7-Eleven Spoke
We sit in this white bucket, usually once a year to
rest on the counter near lottery tickets and cash
register. In warm water, spayed, our thorns are gone,
left somewhere in Ecuador, swept off the floor,
before they packed us tight to fly far away, then taken
in trucks all over paved roads into rectangular buildings
where fluorescent lights are always on. We watch them
buy beer, cigarettes, some stare at us in wonder that we
have petals, red color, were once alive. They touch,
fondle, rustle our leaves, remembering a moment
with us, that wasn’t us. Others grab us, a dozen at a time,
the number of true love, when money doesn’t matter at all.
Days go by and we start to droop, no one smiles anymore,
wilted, jilted, until one day, they just throw us away.
Daniel W. Polk 