In this episode, Sawtooth reads the title poem from his second collection of poetry, Monolith Vendors.

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Monolith Vendors

Castro’s beard was captured in Little Havana

trying to start a revolution.

Manuel, the barber on Calle Roja, 

who was no friend of Fidel’s,  

swept up Castro’s beard with his broom.

Manuel placed the beard 

in a dill pickle jar and called the F.B.I. 

Interrogation proved useless 

against Castro’s infiltrating beard.

Torture, truth serum, and offers of amnesty.

None of these tactics worked. 

The F.B.I. made offers of money, to which

Castro’s beard just laughed, and said, 

“Try again.” 

Following months of imprisonment and

high level risk assessment,

the FBI released Castro’s beard.

A revolution in the United States was unlikely.

Finding work was not difficult.

Castro’s beard was offered a job to write 

for the socialist rag, La Revolucion.

The Department of Labor issued a work visa. 

The beard was determined 

to make something of itself. 

Having lived in Cuba on a dictator’s face, 

Castro’s beard wrote the best articles 

on socialism anybody had ever read.

The disembodied beard worked its way to the top.

Staff writer, to lead writer, to Editor in Chief.

Life was good for the transplanted ideologue. 

The beard bought a car and a small bungalow.

None of it belonged to Cuba.

Castro’s beard was happy for a long time.

Many years later, on a cool evening, 

Castro’s Beard was watching television and 

eating dinner at home in Little Havana. 

There was a knock on the door. 

Not expecting company, the beard said, “Who is it?” 

There was a very long pause before the reply. 

“Somos los amigos de Fidel Castro. 

Señor Castro está muerto.” 

We are the friends of Fidel. Mr Castro is dead. 

The day Castro’s beard had been dreading had arrived.

The beard opened its front door.

Two men, dressed in black suits, with skin 

the color of gold stood on the porch. 

The men smelled of cigar smoke, rum, and fresh limes.

They were crying. “Stay here,” said Castro’s beard.

The beard went to its bedroom, and took a suitcase 

from the closet, and started packing. 

The men waited on the porch. 

Hundreds of thousands—maybe millions— of mourners

passed by the glass coffin of Fidel Castro.

The line of people waiting to see the dead

President’s body at Revolution Square, stretched for miles. From its perch on Fidel’s cold dead chin, 

Castro’s beard regarded each mourner with gratitude.

Most were silent, some said long and whispering prayers,

others wailed and screamed with unfathomable grief.

An old woman addressed Castro’s beard directly. 

“I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, wiping away tears, 

“You belong here, on the face of our leader.” 

Deep down inside, Castro’s beard was certain 

The old woman was right. 

“May I ask you a question?” said the beard to the woman.

The old woman blew her nose into a rag and nodded. 

“Did Fidel forget me—did he hate me for failing?”

“Never,” the woman said to the beard, 

dropping her handkerchief. She smiled.

“He loved you for trying.”