AFTER READING A VERSE FROM THE HOLY QURAN, HUITZILOPOCHTLI, IN THE AUTUMN LIGHT EXPLAINS TO HIS YOUNG SCRIBES THE OVERWHELMING EVENT
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Albino Carrillo
Albino Carrillo is an Associate Professor of Poetry and Creative Writing in the English Department of the University of Dayton. His one book is IN THE CITY OF SMOKING MIRRORS, published by the University of Arizona Press. Over the past 21 years, his work has appeared in national literary journals such as The Americas Review, Puerto Del Sol, The Antioch Review, Blue Mesa Review, and Columbia. By Albino Carrillo
Published on 11/16/2001
It's in amazement I write to tell you about space, not where the stars dwell
But rather where we live among the tall pine, sycamore and dogwood.
I can never tell you how to feel-its up to you to notice
The mad look in my eyes the television gave me, the look
I use to greet the businessmen and bureaucrats in hell.
And about the bombing: the souls who roasted
Will not dwell in my little heaven but will rest
On calm blue sheets, loved and nourished by coyote's own great teats!
You see, not believing now is worse.
The demons you'll have to defeat on your inward journey
Are like so many little yellow hornets buzzing about
Window screens in summer, angry but looking
For anything sweet, any way out--in the wild fields
Outside groaning, in the ash-cans and offices roaming.
Every morning, you see, I fuck a wild woman while roses
Swirl around her head: it's then I hear the live oak
Singing in winter as her breath becomes mine--
O that we were as careless as the trees
To leave our clothing behind.
The overwhelming event asks us to reconsider
The teleological message written into its occurrence:
There's a prayer book with all our names in it somewhere,
The hymns we know written down neatly in pencil
By the original hand that guided Lot away from Sodom.
So here we are in this room without windows,
The insects going mad. If only we could break
Into little groups to find our own truth, the
Womb's truth, the Lamb's truth. Even the truth
Of some wounded blackboard from another century
That never slips in its dusty conveyance of order to you or me.
Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2001. All Rights Reserved.
It's in amazement I write to tell you about space, not where the stars dwell
But rather where we live among the tall pine, sycamore and dogwood.
I can never tell you how to feel-its up to you to notice
The mad look in my eyes the television gave me, the look
I use to greet the businessmen and bureaucrats in hell.
But rather where we live among the tall pine, sycamore and dogwood.
I can never tell you how to feel-its up to you to notice
The mad look in my eyes the television gave me, the look
I use to greet the businessmen and bureaucrats in hell.
It's in amazement I write to tell you about space, not where the stars dwell
But rather where we live among the tall pine, sycamore and dogwood.
I can never tell you how to feel-its up to you to notice
The mad look in my eyes the television gave me, the look
I use to greet the businessmen and bureaucrats in hell.
And about the bombing: the souls who roasted
Will not dwell in my little heaven but will rest
On calm blue sheets, loved and nourished by coyote's own great teats!
You see, not believing now is worse.
The demons you'll have to defeat on your inward journey
Are like so many little yellow hornets buzzing about
Window screens in summer, angry but looking
For anything sweet, any way out--in the wild fields
Outside groaning, in the ash-cans and offices roaming.
Every morning, you see, I fuck a wild woman while roses
Swirl around her head: it's then I hear the live oak
Singing in winter as her breath becomes mine--
O that we were as careless as the trees
To leave our clothing behind.
The overwhelming event asks us to reconsider
The teleological message written into its occurrence:
There's a prayer book with all our names in it somewhere,
The hymns we know written down neatly in pencil
By the original hand that guided Lot away from Sodom.
So here we are in this room without windows,
The insects going mad. If only we could break
Into little groups to find our own truth, the
Womb's truth, the Lamb's truth. Even the truth
Of some wounded blackboard from another century
That never slips in its dusty conveyance of order to you or me.
Copyright © Albino Carrillo, 2001. All Rights Reserved.