Christina Granados






Every crack is bleeding building beige,

golden dragons eating circular patterns

and the arches dominate rooms;

Sitting positions

calmly wearing faces of calm

but inside - brewing,

Inside, large golden blocks of history,

numbers, serial killers, fibrous cloth

that put a spin in the an iris,

a retina,

All waiting

sitting without the waiting

There was never any other way

than destiny,

To be robbed,

be taken by the roots and hung like the leaves,

green, con lagrimas

Everything is stolen slowly here.


It’s long-winded
This guilt     frying beneath
flickering against the comfort
the wealth     and the rest given to me
for free     for being part of a country
where war is there

Untouched by grey stones
and border fatigues
With no one to trust
(Although I have my suspicions about
    the man we call sir, master, lord
of all things right)
All things are wrong
    Planning for internal galas
    his women fashionistas, strategically designed

An agenda
with words in place     soldiers
    to bear the cross of existence
Without parades     or fanfares
(but maybe bullet-rains)
To quell the muffled    screaming
in Midwest industry towns
where men torch white hearses
    without bodies     only flags
To soothe the spectral variance of disasters
    within his soul     and left behind
    a written plea of despondency     over his rule
Our rule
To treat the blinking eyes of global corporate hunger
    Oil-for-food     kickbacks in circle eights
    until we can no longer find the origin under the same
    atmospheric pressure

And sitting    speaking the words
while structures still stand
you are not lying in the ruins

It’s a long-winded guilt.


Over that wheat-colored hill
Along that windblown stretch of highway
Where James Dean decided to play

I see the blazing horizon; that
Imaginary line that
Tricks your soul into
Thinking it is the end

Slowly, I descend
Into the abrupt darkness; my
Headlights piercing through
The solitude, the attitude,

Of death and its preying ways.

The lonely memorial whispers and
I come to the rusted brown Oleantheum
With its embracing branches
Sweeping out from above

Begging me to sit under its canopy

Where the benches meet the over-trodden soil;
Brown dirt for children’s sweaty palms
To dig, like their parents

For the answers to all of the questions
When they slither upon the
End of nowhere


© 2005 El Andar Magazine and Christina Granados