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.


 

 

 

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