huitzil, sparks of
green. gold. blue.
hummingbird streaks,
zig zag after thoughts
and whispers of complex
navigation, complex conversation
and modern gods.
The Aztecs thought
them warriors
so different from our
steroidal vision
of swollen power
and butch whimsy.
They saw delicate sword,
they saw the vision dance
of practiced warriors,
the hovering lightening and
the thrushed humm,
declaration of home
when war was still painted
and sung
Our eyes deceive the
complexity of stillness
The majesty of blooms
holding court and giving
their blood
to be lapped up
and levitated -- sugar fire
carrying soul after soul
Deliverance and destruction
under the roasting, rusted sun
of our East Los backyard
my father stands,
lapping nectar from the air,
from the blooms
looking for the fire
that traced the steps of his
mothers and grandfathers
watering the barrio garden
lifting moisture into
the cracking air,
misting the wind back
into his face
and the hummingbird rises.,
to drink of the same mist. To
share in the salvation of unnatural cool
To hover in the circle of
eternal conversation,
Speaking souls, carrying souls,
warrior souls.
Defiant of air and
defiant of fear,
huitzil smiles on
father, on grandfather and says
in gemmed tones of red, blue and green
your tired legs are now blessed,
your calloused hands have
touched the face of god,
and in whispers of now,
of present eternities of tomorrows,
somehow he dries the tears of
relentless yesterdays,
and the hummingbird
flicks its tongue into the
cool stream from just another
green plastic hose
Santa Ana winds exhale
hot through our urban
balcony, flowering hopes.
years since father's ashes
floated away
in the San Pedro current
here, the huitzil tastes
the hibiscus
placed here just for him
He smiles, as communion
is given. The host is his body
a body weighed down
carrying souls, delivering souls
warrior souls
The blood is the sweet
wine of life fed
by upwardly mobile
pocho Brita nectar
served in the name
of the father
and of the son.
this collidescope ghost
continues a lost
conversation,
never betraying
the burden of southwest
ancestors on its feathered
tips
A warrior of souls
ever rising
to the hopes of
the lost and wounded.
Wings tempered by
sugar fire, sunlight
and death
to lift the conversation
for one more
generation
dipping its sharpened
beak right
into my heart
and I pray that it feeds
long and deep
and leaves me hollow.
hollow enough
to blow away,
ride the wind's
whimsy and continue
lost conversations.
chest open, bleeding heart
like Aztec stigmata
showing the way
In the name
of the father
and the sun,
and the hollow ghost
Deliver me
from suburban malaise
on the wings
of weightless gemmed
warriors of the sky,
deliver me to
the holy land
of endless orange groves
now and at the hour
of our debt.
Namaste. Blessed Huitzil
Blessed soul carrier
smile upon the
wet concrete
yesterday again.
