Mind Core

For Francisco X. Alarcón, RIP It considers those men that ambled & Flushed their swords & cut off the neck Of the blue horses & scraped off death Dust from the carcass — rape of women Tresses in boilers — the tin-colored animals On the viridian grasses in particular the Howler Monkey let the word shoot up To the spheres — later we charged our Blood with these accounts we hid the arms Unforgiving texts & designs sewn into Our tiny alabaster lockets. We visited The last ridge where Victor Jara Denounced the paramilitary — from La Obrera in the heights of  Tijuana we Sketched the reddish moon & scratched Poems those things that could carry The letters we hauled on our backs. We were separated from something we Could not describe yet we were in The totality in the long winding turquoise That broke us & put us back together Again. What was that totality? It could Not be written —Green moon, green blood— We wrote. We marched to the ends of Lacanjá Chansayab & the heights Of El Colorín Central México. We were too Late — the waters in which people bathed Were cloudy & malignant — bellies Bloated children leaned on the twig House women stood up some sat cross- Legged under the fire rays of noon — We knew they knew the rubble land Was not theirs or ours it was stuffed into The cigarette packs of the Ladino Hacendados who kicked up their short Boots in the City of Bones below. With our faces in new faces we rolled Back to LA. Do you change it? Do you Leave it the same? Words — what are they? A new cognition was required — then With the ecstasy of the unleashed Other things pulled us apart. Other things Reassembled us. Now we are here.