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Poetry

Machine-Made Sacramental Jesus

Edwin Wilson Rivera

I

Happy the tree
that scarcely feels
a national
fuck, the dust of poverty,
the dust of corruption, the dust
of hell on earth, created by
disease, within putrefaction,
into decay  [I’ll be in the Book,
honey, writ out].
                A crowd killed Socrates; a crowd killed
                Jesus: No son of a bitch that won the
                Nobel Prize—“Please go away,
                daddy, I just got my period.”

II

Hier ist kein warum
Qua sky
America two dollars and twentysevencents.
                Three-hundred horsepower chromium cunt seems like
                being by the creek smelled dark. That’s why Walgreen’s
                sells Vaseline it wants to play baggy and flab and carry
                tuna sandwiches to work. Blackbirds fatten best
                in silent love in a loud body.
                                The Big Mac is like astrology
                                it only bites the barefooted.

III

Who don’t want Novocain?
Karaoke fame? The Latin words hustled together hard,
sufficient, potent, remorseless:
            To know that we know what we know
            so many sins to confess; only intellectuals
            like to see poverty, old fixed orders
            spiraling apart.

IV

In Cyber Space’s Celestial City it takes
two people to make you, and one people
to die. Father said a man is the sum of
his misfortunes. “Ain’t heard of nobody gettin’
no money readin.’ You’re just one a’them
boys with a sink full a’ dishes.”
[Hug me honey, snuggly bunny,
love’s as good as Sooooooma]

V

I go forth to fatten myself/ not-chaos
lay outside of that matrix and I sang
with burning sparks/ bits of bone and
hair to re-recite the alphabet/ nudity
corrupted nakedness with eyes.
It makes you feel like a stranger in
your own dying.

 VI

How do our lives ravel out
into the no-wind no-
sound. (But my heart went on remembering
your mouth whose nether creatures seep
out, hair by hair, lines of light ranged in
the nonspace of the mind).
New thresholds! New
anatomies!
Then the drink
takes the man.
                       
VII

History is the angle at which realities
meet very close to walls, uttering
the lush banalities.
The world was all knots and lashings
once, ask wind, wave, star, bird,
clock.  Elements are created
out of cosmic violence.
The Indian goes into his teepee
and talks to Jesus, a cryptic ticking
mechanism, in search of
revolution.

VIII

Fucking Christians, they’re the worst, throwing all
guns and sex and cruelty and tears
into the sea. Mere-weary mood chasing the
Perfect Cool. “The world should fuck off with
their sociology, living so damn damned.”
                Quixote prevails over Einstein, whatever
                wilderness contained there, whatever
                beasts.

IV

The fisherman hacked
a young woman and a young woman
guerilla to death. Not unquizzical and
not humorless too he speaks in stones
and trees, the bones of things. A
campesino who used pointed sticks
to plant corn kernels in his
milpa.

X

“The power was lying
in the street,” in a mute
mutual privacy of
violence playing hooky
from her holy family,
99 percent of living and
one percent of dying.
                A hyphenated self with a room full of clippings,
                abstractions taken by the first snows of
                reduction flowing from what wounds in what side
                “that not for me
                died not.”

XI

The anesthesia of the everyday he watches
feet soles with walking like. He had found
domain a metaphor of metaphysical
ambiguity so they were beaten and
shot to death indiscriminately. Fleshy,
warped, spit-spraying.
I SHOOT WHEN I SEE
THE WHITES IN THE
EYES.
“He is on a journey, and he is reporting in.”

XII

When the disease is fatal
Ronald McDonald takes
the Pulitzer.
Pale in an attic,
typing strange pages.

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