A Poetic Appendix to Casablanca

A few things I left unsaid. As I wandered through the medina, the steps, and shadows, it occurred to me that there were moments and thoughts that could be added to what I wrote last night. That should be added. For the record, so to speak. 

This post might act as a more poetic and expansive reflection than the last. Let it act as a sort of poetic appendix. Most of these thoughts were jotted down spontaneously in my 3.5 x 5.5 48-page memo book, and are recorded here as such. These thoughts were written between the 24th of Aug. and the 10th of September, My stay in Casablanca. 

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A smoke filled cafe, batting eyes, Side glances and died hair. "No, I'm not talking about you" ... "I'm talking about them"... A small espresso glass is splashed with coffee. Three sugar cubes placed along side.  
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"God isn't dead" ... "But I'll get that bastard one day" ! -Hymns for the Condemned
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The shadow man, I saw him again today. He was by the tram, 8:47 am. He walks in small strides. His filthy work coat trenches with dust and sweat, hat tucked over matted hair. Waste bin to wast bin he parades the avenue. Finds the end and throws up his arms. As if that was his defeat. 
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There is Neal Cassidy in Casablanca and he is a Nihilist.  
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The look of a forlorn man isn't known, not until you see the things that make him long to leave his home. There is leaving or there is death. Uncertainly so. 
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"If you think women are equal to dogs...or," [He turns to blow smoke towards the port] "or that gays should be killed, how will you question the systems of power?" He raps his figures on the table. Looks back at me. "Yes, of course, it's a method of control" 
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The son of love. Scars down his arms, self inflicted as per tradition of being a tough guy in these streets. He approaches, confessing that he believes individual rights. He proclaims his sister has the right to have sex with whoever she wants. "Nice tattoos" [I was not present] He is gone. The son of love. The rose that grew from Casablanca concrete. Between an empty pack of winstons and a dead cat. When Jesus and Satan finally duke it out, it will be him- the son of love who will rise. 
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The hairy old French man, he sits next to a beautiful young black girl, hawkers of watches, belts, shirts, paintings, soap, and all else are drawn to him. "She did him over"... "I can too" It is a bit pitiful, the Frechman I mean. They show him their wares, he only looks away appearing discontent. 
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The queer and the woman show him the most beautiful face of the city. It's veins and vines exposed from above. Flayed out like a anatomical sketch. Remembered over tea and standing over Windows. 
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Mint tea and exhaust. Cuban links/, sandals and etching of /sweat&desire. Nipple rings and an American in Casablanca/ Sharmin and combat boots
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To contemplate my faith, living with a hardcore kid in Casablanca. Johnny Cash's voice ripples out, a swaying man in black and white in the glow of late night streets. A weird zone on the tip of plunging into movement. &death? she waits quietly on my arm, my lack of acknowledgment seeking toll. La Santisma waits for none.
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It smells like bodies on top of each other in the street- swaying to the flow of capital and the call to prayer. 
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He is Neal Cassidy stuck in Denver
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I know a place where rebellion died/ in bottles and acid/ 
[not beer bottles but the bottles that the state forces  dissidents sit on naked in prison, not LSD acid, but the burning type.]
I know a place where pain sighed where revolution died
In the madding din of the night, in the smokestack city, 
In the open sewer of the world
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7:50am I watched 4 dogs greet each other in the street amongst the beggars and bourgeoise. Under the Ecole de transits et longstique. Gating between the columns of the colonnade I wait to get water from a store I like. 
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She cries when I come back. I don't know why. 
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Up till 4, catch grey taxi and am packed like a sardine by 8. No sleep till midday. We catch a train to Rabat playing that punk shit in our cabin. No sleep till 5. Up by 8. 
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One day in the hills of Galicia he will play his guitar. 
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A fairwell, brief, traffic is waiting. An embrace and a kiss on each cheek. "Safe travels". Into the taxi and out of sight ... Down the way men are pulling a reluctant sheep, a man lays in the street drunk wishing for death. It is dark and the alleyways gush with darkness and fluorescent beams, trash and sharmin. He turns to me and shakes his head. I can't fathom hating this place as much as he, because it does not hate me with such ferocity. I do detest it's ugly outline, hulking and shaking under a starless sky. 
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I'll miss hearing Darija and I hate French. I am American after all.