Las bulerías de Jerez de la Frontera al estilo Haibun Japones

The weathered gypsy. His long, black hair and beard are silvered with age or work. We take his wine and drill las bulerías. It is doce tiempo, or a 12 count.  We speak Espangles, but count in Andalusian.  He says:  Oye tío, a ver si me entiendes – see if you understand Americanito.  This doesn’t begin on the one—but on the twelve with una nota fantasma. A phantom note. Comprendes? Pué anda ya!—(un), do… un, do tré…quatro, cinco, sey … siete, ocho, nueve, dié…(un), do…un, do,  tré…quatro, cinco, sey… siete, ocho, nueve, dié—he repeats, stressing the three, the six, the eight, the ten, the twelve!  

                        There comes a time you cannot think
                        of time
                        or else you lose the timing.

Time a many tentacled heartbeat bringing all life into the center of the chest, pushing it out the inky jets of an octopus, saluting salt and water with the flourish of a spotted dancer’s body, like a red carnation tightly pulled into her hair with nails as severe as Good Friday proceeding—-we translate bulerías to the rhythm drawing on a cajón, el dibujo, and the gypsy counsels: leave calculation, deliberation, and effort behind. Then in concert with guitarists, with hand clapping singers, with the floor splintering taconeo of the dancers—heels crushing into wood, an excited whispering rises now. This. Just this.

                        Ále! The fallen trees    
                        my teacher sent me here to set
free to sing!