I found myself in a small, dark and crowded room
Two men covered in sweat came and got me.
They led me up many steps to where an opening appeared,
The sunlight blinded me.
I was at the top of the pyramid and below me,
The multitude yelled and shook their fists.
Tlacatecuhtli, or “High Priest”, approached me dressed in iridescent Quetzal plumes, but the bright colors were dulled with stains of dripping blood.
Two hefty men stretched me across the sacrificial rock,
I fought, but could not overcome their strength.
The priest in the bloody feathered dress
Withdrew from his blood spattered sheath
A green jade knife with a finely sharpened blade and without warning brought the instrument of death down with such force it buckled my knees.
I screamed in searing pain and suddenly, he plunged it in again this time twisting it, making a big hole in my chest.
He put his dirty hand in the open wound and
cut the valves that held my heart in place
removing it, but strangely,
I felt my heart was free, and
so was I.
I died but did not go anywhere remaining as if invisible, but yet aware.
I saw the priest lift my still beating heart up into the air.
The crowd went wild and chanted something I did not care to understand.
He placed my heart on a small piece of sarape cloth,
wrapped it loosely and put it in a sacred Topitli basket,
along with many other hearts,
some still beating.
Sweaty assistants removed my head and handed it to the priest.
Someone threw my body down the steps of the pyramid and
I heard my right arm bone break with a crack and
With my body still rolling down the steps,
several other bones also broke.
When my body hit the ground, people gathered and began to dismember me.
Another roar went up as the priest lifted my head now impaled on a pole alongside other decapitated heads all staring with empty eyes at the magnificent plazas. Their architecture was beautiful, painted white, resembling the tops of snowy covered mountain peaks; except for the one bathed in crimson.
Somehow, I thought I could walk around as if I were normal but
Something pulled me from somewhere and I was gone. Sometime later, I don’t know how long, I was a baby on a woman’s lap sucking her chichi and feeling uncomfortably wet.
Much later, as centuries passed, I guessed,
I found myself in a small room staring at a box with
moving pictures showing showers of blood that filled the screen with people screaming, being massacred.
Some say those pictures are hideous and should not be shown as they are a blot against humanity, but I don’t shrink from them.
Maybe, it’s because I see those same images every day.
They have made me unsympathetic in a very strange and peculiar way.
It seems we justify pandemonium by saying it is not our concern if it doesn’t touch us. But it does touch every one of us.
I do not know much about such things, but this I do know, throughout history many good people have shed blood in countless ways, many too gruesome to express, and there have always been those that didn’t care because it wasn’t happening to them. Little do they know that in the monsoon when torrents of rain fall, they fall on all rooftops,
as does the shrapnel of exploding bombs.
I guess, we have gotten used to accepting our daily dose of blood and gory mayhem. We flip with our remotes from one bloody chaos to another, real or fantasized. We can’t seem to live without it. We are lions vicariously feasting on lambs.
We live with blood all around us and blood has been around us all
since the beginning of time and somehow, a different way of thinking and living doesn’t seem to be emerging anytime soon.
His poetry has been published by the following: Indiana University Journal; Sound of Poetry; Avocet Review (Avocet Press); Snow Jewel (Grey Sparrow Press); Black Petals E-zine; Ilumen (Mouthfeel Press/Sam's Dot Publishing); Tuck Magazine and many others, including a genealogical webzine, and Ruh Aatish; and Poetry Soup in which he was also a featured poet.
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