Meanwhile Xela is full of Quetzaltecos and carnachos and dreams.
Like the paranormal that goes on
forgotten as soon as seen,
the friends you love forget you love
and never wear the king’s attire.
Like jungles swing out from our hearts
and plants that drip onto your kidneys,
The net to keep around a bed -
Your friend the cat on midnight’s sill.
…and what of it Weird Uncle J,
we’ve lost the war, the Secret Service
being us. What El Ijo del Diablo coughed up,
and he’s the captain of us all.
I sell my wears on winds of trade,
but those who need them seem to fade.
The cat’s alert on midnight’s sill,
there is no pane to keep us in.
Our spirits seep while we’re asleep,
and when we wake its rain again.
For when those think back to the past will see us learn
and laugh and dance. And turn away and come right back.
And go inside and close the door, and cry, and sweat
the beer when we of gods hold on for life
the secret being not here to find.
And on must we, must we must go, and forge
what souvenirs we steal, and track more orbits
through the world, a world we map, a map to lose,
whose land this is we do not know, and never will.