Roy G. Guzmán

After the 2010 San Fernando massacre Para Luis You novelize a route with flesh dumped at the ranch, can’t backtrack the courage of miles we traversed in the dark, on a sighing speedboat, through jungles that spat only shoes, calzones, bodies twisted as guitarras when there’s no grito left in them to pluck. Back home, we priested our mornings with sun-dried sombreros, communed with our ghosts & had no wish to sacrifice our bellies, our terneros, our Consuelos. With wings from acero, we’d crash latitudinal 
objections, mystify Bengay on the mouths of our map-torn feet, pay no heed to grief’s ambidextrous strophes. If we choked on our own blood we harpooned optimism. But when the vans deadlocked our 
pilgrimage we knew our shadows had crumbed the anesthetic vultures. They pressed their loaded beaks upon our backs until our knees bent sour orange. One asked if we served the enemy, but we took enemy to mean a seed that sits quietly underfoot, abashed to vestibule the grating sun. Blindfolded, we faced the gloom volcanoes of their mothers. How those mothers might’ve screamed like ours in their tortured independence: bloody thunder in the brown-starched symphonies, a wind that howled & shoved its thumbs through feral lands probing for judgment or commiseration. Chingado god that copycatted these legs from monotony. Chingado god that hewed our wrists, a pair of stems to strap behind our wrested boots & jeans. Whoever supplied a plea to that deviant afternoon’s rationed blessings neglected to add chile, sazón, a nosegay of tortillas to the long road. Mothers who’ve come to reclaim our tongues in the dirt: remind us of the braids in the phrasings of our dreams before we vanished. Pat the ground for the bodkinned orchids. Wasn’t it yesterday we were siphoning forecasts with our fingers roving on the table? Or caught your chests pain-leavened & stilled them with the rumpus of our hopes?

My heart was a dystopian berry budding in water tiger lilies claiming hocus-pocus wonder. I was broken vanity, vixen vase, victorious tête- à-tête — the Scrabble game nobody won because the tiles aspired speculums. Ocean-misaligned brook / brook-misaligned agua — where else could these gospels have dawned if not in the bellies of men hyenaing a becoming? Twerking in church, I outperformed the candles diarized in the simpleminded annexation.       Wussup, Blastoise with the veiniest homebound pika-pika aim? Wussup, Sims Chumbawamba Family Portrait Simulation? St. Sunny of the Sissies beheld the bukkake throng of mojo-coated cartilage squandered on the refurbished bunk for new cetaceans. A dazzling jeremiad shone me dead until I gridlocked the algebraic expressions of my body in question marks. These syndicated fiyahs stigmatized my herculean magma shades, but I held these walls apart, every inch of my mascara cut off apple pie. You watched me hobble home while the streets coalesced magenta. Tell Momma the holes I cover with one error swell — & there are only inadvertent landscapes to dollop with nonetheless.

Jewelry boom box spittin’bidi bidi bom bom he verges his groove of slapstick smoke across our donated mosquito nets bidi bidi bom bom all night he fingertips our omnivorous junk in his cruel maw of tooth gaps magical realistic funky ass choral arrangements of servitude mighty dump truck hip-ee hip-ee dales my rotunda all over these unsullied shimmies bidi bidi bom bom orb-spider thighs cloaking his genocidal hunches Momma catapulting protection abracadabras over our twiggy panoplies we painstakingly bedecked how many times haven’t we fallen for mishandled precipices in the wrongheaded entirety of machomanic evacuation asteroid in mouth-crooked chaps guayabera deep pink guava pulp rum & coke in his fierce prayerful grip to bypass civility a Google-translated wink inumbrated eyebrows to cast embered mercies I pump bidi bidi bom bom hormonal harmonies for his jawlined mitzvahs bidi bidi bidi bidi bidi on wings only light will kerfuffle flight born at his bidding va-voomed for his favor we puff from the tail of his pickup truck we clothes- line an underwater continent marooned & whiplashed for genesis if carnage can charade competency we too can corrupt castanets timbre compulsory penances over his padded knees bidi bidi bom bom above his life insurance policy rates coma with anointed vanity with the right song a stone will pass for bread break for a fool’s sunrise achieve the love ritual cut scorn’s willy bob hither to this bomb

Spandex leggings authenticating my anaerobic exit strategies. Crotch but a bumper sticker in a heretofore-fleeting waterloo. Crunk repentance. I span our doomed alphabet soup like Jane Fonda’s antiwar legs in calisthenic videos. My zenith of hair a brown, wannabe-Fawcett, mean-ole-toucan pupic papa — . He who so feeds on an entire corpus and still starves, helms the colloquium outside the bathroom of transubstantiation. Tonight — a vastly archived Nietzschean nighttime — I anal bleach my humpty- dumpty stigmatas. Boys conch with crimson Hollywood carpets that disentangle from their cavities, accustoming their catwalks upon the blood clots of their mamacitas. As twilight uncrowns the shade, I howl effluvium, switchblade hue to hue. I plié before the gas cloud lifting jumbo leaves. Like a mythic infantry, the thirsty roaches begin to leatherflock.