The incorporeal morning has expired
the earth and its mountains and plants, its waters, our souls
desiccated by the winds, suffocating in heaving breaths
deflowered by the shrill songs of thirsty birds
dumbfounded by the blind sun and the man-made logic
of freedom, democracy, philosophy
empty evolution of happiness.
The spent feathers of a singular bird blow aimlessly
then fall between my split toenails, mad with caked insects and loam
which creep up my legs and clothe me, sitting naked on rocks
the spine of books in my mouth, the pages torn and wet with blood
under my buttocks, the stinging sands melting my eyes and sealing
my eardrums -- even beauty has been exiled from the smallest atomic primordial particle of the senses
If my body is still composed at the end of the day
put me on a rusty bicycle with wheels that are true
that have journeyed many miles over sharp rocks
capable of treading over thick dust and the deep waters of the ocean.
Don't worry
whether I can fill my lungs with anything -- water, air, or sand
fire fueled by everything
in its tracks will keep my feet pedaling
will consume me anyway
will leave only my lips intact -- twitching and grimacing at my own well-being.
©1995, Severino Profeta Reyes