Sunday, April 7, 2013
que están malditos
Antonio, the city's black haired,
mestizo skinned child, he's sitting
on the banks of a dry river, he's
picking a knee scab and
waiting for the ancient storms to flood
out the plastic bag
brimmed riverbed, he's
falling in love with the
notion of a million years
of rain that'll purify
the ever concentrating sewage,
that'll blow away the
circling buzzards awaiting
the blood to go cold for
the next parched, fleshy
life who finds the last desperate
hope of a swallow of water soaked
up by a pile of dusty bones.
Antonio flicks the scab into
the dirt and listens for his storms,
hears only the city, the fucking
city's wheezing in the desert,
hears the city's toxic
fuel powered, combustion
gasps trying to maintain a
ruthless routine of
neatly chorded trees,
synchronized traffic lights,
the food rationing hustle and
of minimal, standardized
opportunities for subversiveness
as a clattering of keys and locks.
Antonio stops trying to hear
it coming, he looks to the horizon
for his clouds, his skin feels for the
winds that'll herald in the
reckoning of his rejuvenation dreams.
Antonio feels nothing, sees nothing.
Antonio's tasting blood from his
knee, the coagulating bitterness
sputters his seething heart,
the city jolts like it missed a gear
and spills his abuelita from her adobe box,
she shuffles by him
with her slow tapping cane resetting
the false infinity pulse she had spewed
out of her womb so long ago.
Antonio follows her to the
catholic church sinking
into the encroaching dunes.
Antonio watches her cup
her hand into the blessed water
and lap it up when the
priest ain't looking.
She turns turns and sees
Antonio staring at her from
the gilded doorway, her wrinkled
wet lips mouth mis jovenes,
mis jovenes, estan malditos.
Antonio turns his back on her,
he turns into the city
streets again, directionless
Antonio goes to meet them, those
black flashing violent clouds
hidden away beyond the
vaporized acid fortress
exhausted by his people's existence.
Away from the city he drifts,
turning into the storm's
emanating, long estranged
and delicate winds
as they find him,
the city's bastard child
with whitened knuckles
and feverish heart beat
echoing the quickening
thunder
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