| Salinas
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.
Association
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.
46
Over that wheat-colored hill
Along that windblown stretch of highway
Where James Dean decided to play
Recklessly
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
Dig
For the answers to all of the questions
When they slither upon the
End of nowhere
.
© 2005 El Andar Magazine and Christina Granados
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