El Jimador

The sobriquet of animal nature
came storming down to awaken me
on a cold evening in December.

The Virgin Mary was born and
the olympic runners carried her flames
without their bodies to a new pavilion.

It felt like the sojourn was not at an end
when too many voices from Barton Fink
were marauding me with arrows.

Black diamond stairs sucked me into a fan cooled cave
and I could not be there and walked out for a tattoo.

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