Nimrod in Hell

asleep in a room with no windows or walls
basted by the city’s voice

from the agora’s fugue one rawdog appears
to stab you with a screwdriver
or crumple your skull with a spade
because of your dialect, politics, face

it’s that other face, the cotton one, wheels
toward shore-of-the-bathers
surrenders to sun

until features, idiom        hair burn & peel off

& your shadow version rises from its cot
with a claw where the hand was
to kill Time flying in the palms

with jetties beneath
the creature of your being

momma named you after a king

so you remain for good in this
volley of bats, threat-admixed-with-pleasure
sum rhythm of women beating laundry
power washer roaring on your hovel

all for you, the murderous fist
the assassin’s face like a shovel

La Reconquista

el division
is certain . the cristians
abandon . all intent and the other
hired men had enough

they lose their nerve in this
valley where the castle burns
a sham heaven is all
they defend

if so . then
hoorah for the moors
the bosk smells like sugar . no vaca no cactus
torched earth poses

troubling questions
of what things are in the forest