Malcolm Friend
Padre nuestro,
que estás en el cielo,
santificado sea tu nombre,
venga un dembow—
fantasma, echo of Santurce tin houses
banged into existence,
castaway music.
Every night shouts and bullets
bouncing off of bodies.
Bodies bouncing off of houses,
off each other, off the waves
and this is what a guaya
sounds like. Beach as soundboard.
Breakage of sand
to 3 + 3 + 2 snare.
Grain and drip bien pegao.
When a barrio drops the bassline
and lights itself like a vela,
a rezo. Un rosario por los prietos.
Took their chains and built
those Santurce tin houses.
Took the leftover scrap metal
and tricked it out into looped blin blin.
Listen to the slide of their feet
as they dance on the ocean's breeze.
Put all their weight onto the humidity
until the dembow finally drops.