Mass In the Consolación
That young man
nailed to his wooden frame,
calling me by my name.
The boy on the cross has the wide open,
jeweled eyes of a flayed Mexican god,
living forever and never quite dead.
Black blood flows down his carved wooden face,
a river of coal dust waxed with carmine;
human hair, coffee colored skin,
the air heavy with burnt copal.
Trapped by the ring-master
in a never-ending series
of unforgiving circus acts,
my live-wire mind:
bouncing within its triptych
from thought, to word, to deed.
Five hundred years of mixed tongues
whisper their multi-lingual
tale of a golden-haired god
walking out from ghost ships,
their illusory sails,
silhouetted in the sunrise.
Trapped beneath sultry snow,
the old god buried beneath the local volcano
belches his bitterness in lava and ash.