In the Form of Dead Leaves and Torcidos
I called for backup, and what came caused dissonance instead, and the kind I was unable to scrape away with heirloom fileros or assuage in stages.
And December arrived unapologetically.
And offerings like tortillas and sacrificios render shit useless when days accumulate into solitude, which rises, de una manera, where satellites or the moon should stand.
Immediately, the unwelcomed aniversario. A veterano’s passing, and again, I am unarmed. Down-ass memorias. A down-ass vato.
Immediately, the deconstruction of altares and egos, and the things I lost to la pinta never, never remit. Marigold petals shred themselves and rot.
I ran. Season of placazos. Epic shit. Clowns and alebrijes. Watch towers and praying hands. Heavy shit. The untold fortunes of taggers and contraband Sharpies.
To Lorena Street. Phone calls and other viajes. An escapulario clings to my rotund shoulder. Atop my wrist, I situate three crosses: Forgiveness and Brenton Wood.
I like the way he loves me.
Paños, kites, cruzitos. El Monte and santitos. Sureños and 63 rosario beads. His Ben Davis.