MISSILE PARK
Looking
from an aerie in the Organ Mountains, a white
uranic sky graded to the color its poison lies on
his side, Hermit and God, Apaches too, gutted by technology,
by legends of gold mines defeated in an atmosphere transmuted
into hardware, married into families of missiles, circles of
lives tested then discarded, propped up like mutant trees in
a clearcut park, gloating
over targets they never slew, exhaustlessly reentering tailpipe
dreams.
With
a lance planted deep in his side, a
pilgrim suddenly hears the "surprising
harmonies, strange rhythms and disturbing dissonances"
of his martyrdom. This fading world murmurs like Pan's pipes from a goaty breath no longer superheated,
passing from the old man's itinerant lungs.
Paiakyamu
clowns' bodies of contradiction
dance with gluttonous raccoon eyes unmasked
by the Church, thin lines of red lips testifying to history's
deadly trajectories, dry husks and dull wooden knives, thrums
and vesicles of rabbitskin pelts,soft horns mocking horizons, neckties knotting
Modernity's blackening throat in the fading light of the
rockets' last stand.
