The Doorway to Xbalba
Sitting at the gate, armored, a heavy old man snarls,
watching a perimeter fence of thick bamboo.
He listens to screaming sunshine, flesh popping on a spit,
fresh breeze and edgy laughter, dancing, hands clapping.
Blankly filling the space between gods and god-fearing,
snap and whistle, he sends peace running like a dog
He scrapes his blade against the grain of sharp wood fiber,
culled from the dying end of the nearest fence post
Drawing near, notice he is fashioning a simple flute.
He blows a few fragile notes, fingers moving stiffly, he smiles.
He sighs, drops the instrument into the mud,
crushes it under his boot. You pass.
Heavy Player
Hard aching, grim snarl,
Hand hard, throat bare
Low growl against the ear
Slow slide to the center
Shrill cry, low moan
The scrape of nails
Teeth, tongue, hair
On the back of the neck
Loose grip, tight whimper
In thrall to shadowy eyes
Skin against
Animal skin
Leather tight
Inevitability
Slow exploration, tender disclosure
Sharp shock pain, passion-blind eyes
Fine arc of the back, the throat
Shameless pursuit of force
Gentle lamentation moans
Muffled pleading
Starved acquiescence
The lure of unbearable yielding
Spare inches of crescendo
Rising fear, bridled panic
Indecision, rebellion
Blood rising to the
Heart's surface
Dripping-wet dignity
Bruised, swollen
Eyes bright
Breath jagged
Voice torn
Nerves burnt
Love tortured
Surrender
Insidious hunger
Cavernous heat
Rabid satiation
Sweet shuddering
Damp air
Shackles loosed
Courage unfettered
Wet whisper of dark hearts
Brutal admission of
Soul-deep chain links
Power breathes
Dark howls and menacing
Tender beating heart
Closed eyes, open hands
Life-blood laid bare
To dark mastery
Rails
For Don Becker
The train rumbled in the dark.
Asphalt glistened under hard-packed dirt.
Light shone in his tunnel vision.
The air smelled of pitch, of oil, of Hell.
Old trains anchored the rust around him.
His blood jumped cartwheels.
His stomach set like the sun.
His arm lay seamless across the track.
The train barreled closer.
God appeared, and his third-grade teacher.
He opened his eyes to luck and symphonies.
Crashing thunder consumed his ears.
It rolled by on a whistle-stop.
Sinews tore muscle from blood from bone.
His screaming broke the night
The air was cold, and the sweat on his neck.
Sirens made music in the distance.
An iron box flew through the wind.
His mind wandered the train rails.
Shiny plastic memory dripped into his vein.
A froth of blood and fear obscured his vision.
Violent stones fell into the well.
He heard her say that he would lose the arm.
He watched the train sighing in the distance.
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