San Pedro la Laguna, Sololá, Guatemala

I wear striped pants
Numero cuarentasiete
La milpa ama a la orilla
Numero diecinueve
they all shout and clap
fill the afternoon
hammock on the cieling
los sonidos del pueblo
llora llora la bebe
el grupo empieza a tocar
los chavos a bailar
numero cincuenta sies
the bus’s pistons run
like disjointed reggaton
“a dios sea la gloria”
el grupo sigue sigue
las guapas a coquetear
numero diecirubio
El milagüero,
super heroe capaz de todo
como comer chilaquiles
sin parrar.
De aviones no hay
la hormigüita se encuentra
por el techo
del cuarto piso
suena el autobus
llora el gallo
read the horizon
like a bar of music
scream the mountains
para el milagüero
no hay pedo.

Thunderclouds made
from the bus’s tailpipe
the laudry is calm
as it hangs
the elotes are calm
as they bounce in the bag
hanging from the old man’s
neck. The horizon is occasionally
out of tune. Every line must bend
sometime. Sometimes,
rap is like talking
with mechanical lungs.
Ink blot snow drop.
The viejitos sit in
their boats on the edges
of the fishing nets dancing
in the glass water. Their
hands make prayers with
invisible lines. They also bend.
You understand, I have to write
small to make it all fit. For
instance, men here park busses
like well-lubricated
jigsaw puzzles,
one after another.
I promise that the birds
are not talking shit about you,
even though they are talking spanish.
Most of them, anyway. The blue bus
is named Windy. It waits for the alley.
The woman who rents the boats is
named Jesus. She told me so.

The fish sigh in the bottom of the boat.
Some words are more popular
than other words. This is how we
communicate. The mechanic sighs
as the last bus rolls into the alley.
The driver yells “¡sale!” into his rearview
mirror. Hands of the mechanic are black,
from throwing ink blot snow balls and
cursing, banging. All the dogs ever talk
about is barking. Black heads walk down
the street, blonde heads up, mouths
usually open. I feel like there should be
more lighthouses in life. The busses have
each been cut down the middle of the chest,
sparks flying from the welding. “¡Sale!” is a
very popular word. It is how we survive.
By agreement. Saludos a todos. The king
wants to put a sheet over the clouds to
hide their nakedness. Haven’t you seen
the vulgar sky? It’s hard to say no.
Sometimes our rulers look like constipated
stuffed animals, filled with twenty dollar bills.
Sometimes the dictionaries are stuffed with
pesos. Mosttimes not. But it’s worth looking
into, like cocaine in the bible. We are each
smeared in the ash we burn. I once met a
man with a mouth full of carbon. It stumbled
out black when he smiled. It’s usually a song
we already feel like we know. Familiar like
él que amanece.