Hecatomb
-for Roberto Bolano
You spoke of a spiritual hecatomb
The sacrifice of one hundred oxen
Offered to the Oracle
The God of truth
Poetry and music
You spoke of a song
The children’s crusade
Death and the mountain
Helicoidally sliced
Now we the worthless
Unsolicited revelators
Cash in our chips
And speak of this
Infiltration
Canonization
Apocalyptic celebration
We spit seed wash hands
Sprinkle barley meal pray
Arrange the Holy Hecatomb
Around the alter of your tome
The world that is all worlds
The broken lyre of Apollo
And slaughter’s curving saw
A hundred oxen in your name
Though not butchered all at once
Methodically three-minute intervals
A finale of one hundred fireworks
Slowed down shot off one at a time
So the spectators astonished mouth
Remains open for as long as it takes
As for the oxen figure 3 x 100
A rite of three hundred minutes
Trumping the Greeks
In the precinct of the Muse
These oxen are birds
Long legged grey as elephants
With sad spasmodic gestures
Each a poem spread eagle
With a multicolored skirt
Hiked over the face
Wrapped in wings
Of soulless laughter
These oxen are babes
Wallowing in the dust
Pining the woodcutter
Whose axe was alive
Their tears evaporate
Like sweat on the back
Of the neck of a laborer
From the southern border
Where there are no borders
Where bards and assassins
Scrape encrypted soles
Of incriminating shoes
And crumbling hearts
Write of your St. Teresa
A city shaped like a dress
Pierced at the breast
Dripping wands of blood
A retablo of sacred laundry
White limbs white feet
Skipping indiscreet
White flame white meat
Quivering upon a spit
Thighbone swaddled
We offer their eyes
Orb of incessant sight
Strung as a menagerie
About a giant’s throat
Pale hide pale horn
The lowing of oxen
Sounding through time
We are no longer slaves
We are his proud head
Bursting like a bubble
In a golden syringe
We are oxen of the sun
Tossing burning shirts
Upon the gravest course
Barely rehearsed
A poet’s coat is skin
With pockets of chasm
Lined in Iambic verse
His knife is a toy
Spiraling the universe
Humming as it goes
A song of perpetual life
A hundred laurel wreaths
Float your life-blood pond
Flies in the face of love
Rise through the center
Dance upon the water
A slow tempo dance
Quaking the earth
With ecstatic fury
What stamina! I can’t imagine my ever having the patience to complete a 100 line poem. Yours is lovely though. I didn’t count the lines! I’m glad you just let it breathe. ☺️
I didn't count the lines either. I simply read and enjoyed it.