Poem
Washington Cucurto
The Shelf-Stocker
Ah - what the fucking fuck!? You peoplelook at who the hell just rolled up, Sir Shelf-Stocker
himself, a class-A national hero. Of course to you guys
the name won’t mean a thing. As if any name meant
something to you people. Carlitos Monzón, Walt Whitman,
J. L. Ortíz; zed zip zilch, you Feculax powder faces.
In spite of that, there he is. Tall and walking
under the lights that are a brightness none other
than the helplessness
of losing your fat hours to a supermarket.
Adriancito Frascarelli, a workingman of this country.
As if this country had a shortage of workers,
you and others like you eulogizing him . . .
The man able to fill up shelves
in the paradise of capitalism: third world
supermarketism. A guy who never lowers
his head and restocks, restocks, fills the shelves.
The stockboy of the South, Adriancito, a machine
for doing things . . .
Ladies and Gentleman, here comes the potato fondler, the carrot’s
bag-buster, the Great Shelf-Stocker, right down to the carpet.
Adrián Frascarelli, the supermarket stockboy.
Learn something from him, in the midst of Neolibralism
he shines, giving proof of honorable sweat.
Les Supermarchés Carrefour have a sole motive for their existance:
To hire the fastest, handsomest
Shelf-Stocker in all of South America!
To Paris - I heard the Shelf-Stocker is going.
Edison Quispe? Hernán Hurtado?
Manuel Pereyra? Gustavo Donaire?
Santiago Vega?
Adriancito Frascarelli!
Girls: one day a new age will dawn;
a style that we won’t see coming will flood
the country, another way
of thinking and of watching TV,
of writing poetry; in the end everything
becomes old-fashioned; when this happens, my son maybe
will have his own grown children, there won’t be
supermarkets and the internet will be a useless relic
of the past.
If I’m alive, and if I’m even black,
(I get whiter with the years)
I will talk to you about the Shelf-Stocker
about an age of dominicannes,
and you guys will open your mouths like toads:
Oy, the same old story again!
© Translation: 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
El llenagóndolas
El llenagóndolas
Pero ¡la putísima madre!, miren quién coñosllega acá, el señorcito llenagóndolas, un
prócer total, claro a ustedes este
nombre no les dirá nada. Mas que nombre les
dice algo a ustedes; Carlitos Monzón, Walt Witman,
J. L. Ortíz; nadita de nada y carita de feculax...
No obstante ahí está, alto y caminando
bajo la luz que no es otra lámpara que la del desamparo
de andar perdiendo el tompie por un supermercado.
Adriancito Frascarelli, un trabajador de este país.
Como si a este país le harían falta trabajadores
vos y otros haciéndole loas...
El hombre capaz de cargas góndolas
en el paraíso del capitalismo: el supermercadismo
tercermundista. Un tipo que no baja jamás
la cabeza y repone, repone, llena góndolas.
El llenagóndolas del Sur, Adriancito, una máquina
de hacer cosas...
Señores ahi viene el tirapapas, el rompebolsas
de zanahorias, el gran llenagondolas hasta el tapete,
Adrián Frascarelli el repositor de supermercado.
Aprendan algo de él, en medio del neoliberalismo
se luce dando pruebas de honorable sudor.
Carrefour tiene un solo motivo de existir:
¡Contrató al llenagondolas mas rápido
y hermoso de Sudamérica!
París, oí, allí va el llenagondolas.
¿Edison Quispe? ¿Hernán Hurtado?
¿Manuel Pereyra? ¿Gustavo Donaire?
¿Santiago Vega?
¡Adriancito Frascarelli!
Muchachas: un día llegará otra época;
una moda que no veremos inundará el país
otra manera de pensar y ver televisión,
de escribir poesía; todo se vuelve anticuado
finalmente; cuando eso suceda, mi hijo tal
vez tendrá sus hijos grandes, no habrá supermercados
y el internet será una cosa inútil de antaño.
Si vivo, si estoy negro aún,
(con los años me voy blanqueando)
les hablaré del llenagóndolas, de una época de dominicanas
y ustedes abrirán la boca como un sapo:
¡Ufa, con la misma historia otra vez!
Poems
Poems of Washington Cucurto
Close
The Shelf-Stocker
Ah - what the fucking fuck!? You peoplelook at who the hell just rolled up, Sir Shelf-Stocker
himself, a class-A national hero. Of course to you guys
the name won’t mean a thing. As if any name meant
something to you people. Carlitos Monzón, Walt Whitman,
J. L. Ortíz; zed zip zilch, you Feculax powder faces.
In spite of that, there he is. Tall and walking
under the lights that are a brightness none other
than the helplessness
of losing your fat hours to a supermarket.
Adriancito Frascarelli, a workingman of this country.
As if this country had a shortage of workers,
you and others like you eulogizing him . . .
The man able to fill up shelves
in the paradise of capitalism: third world
supermarketism. A guy who never lowers
his head and restocks, restocks, fills the shelves.
The stockboy of the South, Adriancito, a machine
for doing things . . .
Ladies and Gentleman, here comes the potato fondler, the carrot’s
bag-buster, the Great Shelf-Stocker, right down to the carpet.
Adrián Frascarelli, the supermarket stockboy.
Learn something from him, in the midst of Neolibralism
he shines, giving proof of honorable sweat.
Les Supermarchés Carrefour have a sole motive for their existance:
To hire the fastest, handsomest
Shelf-Stocker in all of South America!
To Paris - I heard the Shelf-Stocker is going.
Edison Quispe? Hernán Hurtado?
Manuel Pereyra? Gustavo Donaire?
Santiago Vega?
Adriancito Frascarelli!
Girls: one day a new age will dawn;
a style that we won’t see coming will flood
the country, another way
of thinking and of watching TV,
of writing poetry; in the end everything
becomes old-fashioned; when this happens, my son maybe
will have his own grown children, there won’t be
supermarkets and the internet will be a useless relic
of the past.
If I’m alive, and if I’m even black,
(I get whiter with the years)
I will talk to you about the Shelf-Stocker
about an age of dominicannes,
and you guys will open your mouths like toads:
Oy, the same old story again!
© 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
The Shelf-Stocker
Ah - what the fucking fuck!? You peoplelook at who the hell just rolled up, Sir Shelf-Stocker
himself, a class-A national hero. Of course to you guys
the name won’t mean a thing. As if any name meant
something to you people. Carlitos Monzón, Walt Whitman,
J. L. Ortíz; zed zip zilch, you Feculax powder faces.
In spite of that, there he is. Tall and walking
under the lights that are a brightness none other
than the helplessness
of losing your fat hours to a supermarket.
Adriancito Frascarelli, a workingman of this country.
As if this country had a shortage of workers,
you and others like you eulogizing him . . .
The man able to fill up shelves
in the paradise of capitalism: third world
supermarketism. A guy who never lowers
his head and restocks, restocks, fills the shelves.
The stockboy of the South, Adriancito, a machine
for doing things . . .
Ladies and Gentleman, here comes the potato fondler, the carrot’s
bag-buster, the Great Shelf-Stocker, right down to the carpet.
Adrián Frascarelli, the supermarket stockboy.
Learn something from him, in the midst of Neolibralism
he shines, giving proof of honorable sweat.
Les Supermarchés Carrefour have a sole motive for their existance:
To hire the fastest, handsomest
Shelf-Stocker in all of South America!
To Paris - I heard the Shelf-Stocker is going.
Edison Quispe? Hernán Hurtado?
Manuel Pereyra? Gustavo Donaire?
Santiago Vega?
Adriancito Frascarelli!
Girls: one day a new age will dawn;
a style that we won’t see coming will flood
the country, another way
of thinking and of watching TV,
of writing poetry; in the end everything
becomes old-fashioned; when this happens, my son maybe
will have his own grown children, there won’t be
supermarkets and the internet will be a useless relic
of the past.
If I’m alive, and if I’m even black,
(I get whiter with the years)
I will talk to you about the Shelf-Stocker
about an age of dominicannes,
and you guys will open your mouths like toads:
Oy, the same old story again!
© 2012, Jordan Lee Schnee
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