I am seen in war paints of snow and coal,
small hours pressed into days.
The memory is perfected, played well.
These seven years have passed right,
passed right and agonizing in lonesome.
It is alright. Boys do this.
It is the undoing of these cold years,
I feel you were never here.
To have an end! To not begin again!
long into paper and stone—
wearing a bitch’s mask and running hard
It means nothing. Spring and dark.
Snow and coal come clean. My luxury, yes.
The broke back of faith
not knit, straighten—
and summer; the child sulfur;
In you I search for gold and temples
whose doors were barred as the sun
in the canopy
of a tireless wood.
You find in me a basket of heads
with names like Yesterday, Frostheart,
hunt like Ojibwa
for the beast or lonely man
who tore their spines up as string.
I can not see another mountain, the sun’s lame gold.
I do not want to. The mechanism of my gravitas
has been splintered, like a clock or small skull.
I only want to sound into the streets, blitzkrieg,
with a stone or blade and ruin the storefronts, lanes;
fragment a head, loosen up palms into the homes where life
goes on each day, trip to the boneshop, and each week
extends to excess—I will not fish another river
as my father still works the Potomac’s lips. Ghost-line.
Sweet machine, I have gone too high and the sky has gone out.
I am edged—call me Julius, Mein Kamf, hydrogen, sorrow,
and what would be now? A fire, a coffin, a weathered road.
The Anonymity of a Cliff Face
Serpent, only the earth perceives your rattle in the headrows,
the paralytic August slabs, where, commonplace,
sun shears the flats;
the assassin, unfolding
cotton-yellow through my cracks, daguerreotype detail—
The natives have words
There are scars here apparent only to God, the stars;
blood in rivers that have gone off to the sea
long before legend,
of manbeasts, smoke-eaters.
The girl with the arachnid limbs, scorpion heart,
lost her mother in the pits and boneland
of my body; no body
in at all;
hers has become nobody in the misted glass
the rattlers kiss sand
thunder is another death
I am painted
I am unheard.
2003 Pedro Trevino-Ramirez