The Mexicans have their Panchostein. The monster
is ever present, always chasing the Mexican throughout
his impoverished nation, chasing the Mexican even
across the border into America, chasing the Mexican
all the way to London. How the hell Bolt Boy (in his
Mexican incarnation:Muchacho Tornillo) crosses the
Atlantic is not divulged to us. Octavio Paz saw the
face and the culo and knew they were one and the same,
but the pendejo never realized that the face belonged
to Panchostein.
graphics by timothywyllie
A La Mitad
You cut the Buddha in half,
the sand pours out and piles up to your feet.
If you taste it, it is sweet.
You cut Jesus in half,
the salt pours out and piles up to your knees.
You taste it, it tastes like the seas.
You cut Allah in half,
the pepper pours out and piles up to your waist.
You taste it, totalitarian state.
You cut Quetzalcoatl in half,
the past pours out in a primordial brew.
Before you taste it, it is tasting you.
is ever present, always chasing the Mexican throughout
his impoverished nation, chasing the Mexican even
across the border into America, chasing the Mexican
all the way to London. How the hell Bolt Boy (in his
Mexican incarnation:Muchacho Tornillo) crosses the
Atlantic is not divulged to us. Octavio Paz saw the
face and the culo and knew they were one and the same,
but the pendejo never realized that the face belonged
to Panchostein.
graphics by timothywyllie
A La Mitad
You cut the Buddha in half,
the sand pours out and piles up to your feet.
If you taste it, it is sweet.
You cut Jesus in half,
the salt pours out and piles up to your knees.
You taste it, it tastes like the seas.
You cut Allah in half,
the pepper pours out and piles up to your waist.
You taste it, totalitarian state.
You cut Quetzalcoatl in half,
the past pours out in a primordial brew.
Before you taste it, it is tasting you.
posted by RC @ 2:12 AM
2 Comments:
Reyes, whimsical, but right on the money! You certainly don't waste words...
Here's a preview - I'd appreciate your comment:
Perhaps this is what it means
I am reborn every morning
tho’ free of nativities’ original event,
arriving nevertheless squirming and
breathless into a World of an eye blink
which I know I never left;
I drown in a flood of bounteous springtide,
it renews my optimism, renders me
weightless and naïve, able to soar seamlessly
into the spirit world, cross physical borders
without the clutch of atmospheric events.
I witness the break of day free of cosmic
advent, I see challenging horizons but no
frightening distance, I listen to birdsong and
care not they are eating my grain.
This is a place where I can sow the seeds
of my joy again, plant zygote ideas
and watch them grow. Perhaps
this where I can find my Aztlán,
perhaps this is what it means.
© I.D. Carswell
Ivan,thanks for the preview.Yes,I like it...Though I've never been
to Australia I can imagine that it is very much like the old Aztlan and though the present day Aztlan is still beautiful it bears so many scars,sadly.
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