Mexico City’s Waste Mountain Grows
under your wing a long spear and a concubine.
Flourish in stagnant garbage, ringworms, heartening.
Shine above, alone, recoil, two fine fellows, musical.
I kill you. The hour is ours. I will eat your brain
To gain those ideas you formerly owned. It is mine little
King, courtesy in black ears, they are my ears.
I will go about in your business propriety.
Haranguing, open, splendid, sounds vibrate in extremes.
I envy my own suffering martyrdoms as visions of evil.
I mercy, commit. Doubt as doubt paradoxes mastery.
La Santa Muerte, the Saint of Death
Fumbling for love, we let them die.
The denouement, the corruption
The graft, greed and betrayals
The bribes, the appetites
Sacrifice and laying bare,
drained and resigned, the spectacle
The humiliating defeat, the mumbling
unintelligibly and all that sobbing,
these are complex decisions.
Their garish mansion,
the five count indictment,
the scheme, the bribery,
20 years in prison.
Those uncovered e-mails,
the regulated agreements,
the lives of people close to them
who passed away this year. Love.