by Ray Bremser
. . .
we took the first road on our left,
pointed ourselfs to the gulf
& fled thru the falling valleys into
the tropic & lowland plains,
where the jaguar retches & Panfillo
Navarez got his copper-sheathed ass
nipped at, after the crocs & moccasined
Zipotecan active cannibals, who
tip their stings & darts w/curare,
found cause for concern with the
obsidian barbarians the whole
conquistadores were . . .
the truck makes a racous
clattering up rocky roads,
picking up gears
on into the rarified heights--
10 thousand feet up the mountain
which delayed Malinche
on his freaked-out march to
kill & capture the aztec empire,
destroy all the toltec art,
smach the olmec urns & statuary,
all in museums now / little bits and pieces
for man to contemplate their lost glory,
much like the dinosaurs --
up this very same road, under these very same stars,
when it was jungle below & a forest of
tropical fruits above.
& even then, a way, way up in the blue-black site,
hovering at the perigee, ten thousand warm young
kissed the conquerors fingers, old fingers
& i'll come back, born again . . .
i always have,
come back . . .
i'll come back from the dark.
i'll be different & new.
or the same & old,
but i'll be me.
born again always,
born again born again