I) At the time of highest sun, the clouds are puffy like kings asthmatics. Below, men looking orange ladders to reach the light, or at least silent stilts that rise from the asphalt of rotting cactus.
II)
guts Inquisitor charms, moves the wheels of his machine: the sleeves of his costume hanging skeletons of fish and diabolical crossings. A hummingbird stops at the center of the hands: the noon is an abuse, a riveting hammer designs on bald heads down there.
III) Babies
brandy. We walk into your fate, a jumble of syllables wants to be a mantra in his ears but then dissolves into prehistoric drums, the crackle of millions of suns, or perhaps the same sun, millions of times repeated.
IV)
Death bridges round in the waters of obsidian, on the obelisks.
V)
light of the Holy Spirit is the pen in your face: turn around planets, hornets and wasps, hummingbird god thoughtful. Green smoke rising from your concoction into the clouds, jump watercolors in the eyes, bush walk with steps of shade and the glass of your nails peel the shell of the chrysalis water where we look.
VI)
No dancing. Moon arrives on tiptoe, with its purple and blue cloak, and behind it: millions of moons old who crowd the skydome.
VII)
been twelve hours. Midnight is upon each of our arteries, the balm of the forest year calls us, not as far-fled in droves, fire wolves, owls of salt: we are your voice in weeds and mangroves until your voice is the mangrove and weeds.
VIII)
Death round ice bridges in the waters of obsidian. But this time the area out of their hands and going to the swamp where you have your home. We are clean.
(Ricardo Bernal, Medicine Man )
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