Tuesday, June 3, 2014


This is what I see: blood stains kissing the cheeks
of an infant swallowed by the hands of time.
I was that infant. I arose from the living and
died slowly thereafter. This is I what I claim.
I have read books, countless books, seeking
salvation: a word can shatter invisible mirrors.
I wanted to seek the Word. I wanted to be the Word.
In an old cemetery I slaughtered the most sacred vision.
I planted a seed and ran away. This is what I claim.
Every day, every single day, I digest hundreds of sounds.
I dig the earth looking for more. I can never have enough.
I find bodies, old muses, desires, and useless syllables.
Destruction has it own syntax. This is what I claim.
This is what I hear: the noise of the butcher as he cuts the meat,
blood in his hands, sweat on his forehead, guilt in his eyes.
I am the butcher. I am the meat. I am the blood.
This is my holy trinity. This is what I claim.
Ernesto G.
June 3, 2014

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