To the rock of Sisyphus
a tide, yes a tide of blood.
We say so weedy a race
only happens in mythology.
There the famished plump
the bellies of their camels in wars
empty of complaints.
Unicorns thin out in paper jungles
to survive the vinegar of our contracted livers.
Uta’s stare, and the absolute silence
of slender bony people wearing
black cornflowers, and purple cabbage-roses
on their surgically-enhanced-lipped smiles
at funerals revive our fears. There is no Shangri-La,
no forest, canyon, or wilderness far enough
to stand and guard against their stiff
and lean assault on peace.
© Sergio A. Ortiz, April 17, 2010