NIGHT SKY

I can call a lake a kettle a splendid, ivory comb a snare -- tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain. the night sky my ariel home. Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs a collarbone of doubt inching into my anatomy Everest-wide. surging canals into my throat. I am a pianist plying my trade playing to waves -- the wharf and pier passionate onlookers entranced with joy. sailors wearing blond caps in stout approval their tall ships wavy as decorative pins. smashed bottles accumulated days at sea lapping the dock. 28 Back to the Contents Page 

 

THE WORLD OF TEZCATLIPOCA*

"...the fourth state of water in its plasmic state ... elements as plasmic water have programmed goals which they follow like earth encompassing genies. In soft light amid hues of barbaric green. walled edges of the cenote's fortress shine as eyes of the Cyclops, bloodlshot and ringed with nettled stone A break in the clearing -- then ramshackle growth broken with vengeance of uprooted vine confronts the eyes of a jaguar* (axe-breadth apart) between canopies of trees millenial rot, algae and monkeys carved in a jungle setting the shape of an iguana's room  * the same 29 Back to the Contents Page 

 

IN THE CENOTE

Under a candlelit operetta of stars, the vertigo horizon trails to a shudder until, swallows the size of kites handstand in flying motion about pools of water then glide within reach of the cenote,* cisterns deep and flagellant scars in earth that cradle still hands of pale, pumice stone. All the tears of old Mexico refurbish this soil, anxious in blessing a brittle toil in sisal* groves harvesting hennequin* to symbolize pity in flat expanse of Mission stone.  * A deep natural well. The term is of Mayan origin. * Hemp. 30 Back to the Contents Page 

 

BELIZE

Giving myself permission to write -- points from Ciudad Juarez as well as the compass where taboos complete bayonet-sized memories a tadpole of doubt gleaned from shallow Canadian upbringing sojourning in the South. A stranger came -- his beard the Columbian hillcountry mustachioed, the voice trailed off whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles, the Black Mamba or boomslang before brief rictus of pain. I am writing this with an eye on fortune, it's not the cantina is dry just walls above this cot squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing between rosary beads and the day is hot.  

 Prev. P 8/25 next