Indio Profesional

Apr19

Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in gringo plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs

a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)

(based on a true story)

♦ Chacaltaya ♦

Oct14

My dear damsel of glaciers and scuttling roaches

In Andean splendor you startle my heart.

Still seeking a summit, your coldness reproaches;

So little I know you – in whole or in part.

Now that winter recedes as the springtime encroaches

Envision a greening of sorcery’s art.

Lighten up, dark enchantress of icy approaches;

I hope and I pray global warming may start…

Does another bad sonnet addressed to her highness

Allow for a thaw to begin in her soul?

Get over your winter of taciturn shyness!

Or is frozen entombment your element, witch?

This old necrophile waits for a smile (or a twitch).

Hell, I’d marry your corpse – but mere friendship’s my goal.

inca-burial

Courting the Ice Maiden

May23

She was an Andean maiden, a sacrificial victim, an embodiment of unspoken longings, sealed in a frozen tomb at the peak of a Bolivian mountain. I heard Inca music leading me on for years before I ever met her, walked up glaciers to find her, searched the headwaters of the Amazon for her essence, bathed my soul in forbidden tears, Inca on heights brought her treasures and tribute, laid my offerings at the foot of her mountain heights . . . but she was not there. Her tomb was empty. She was living in a mining town in Arizona with hair died Gothic black. I tried in vain to win her, I wrote her poems, prayed for her, but communication was impossible.
She wouldn’t splash around in the wading pool—
and I wanted to plunge below the Atlantean depths with her.
She figured I was a misfit outsider—I thought she was the fate of the Americas.
I offered her the treasures of darkness—she wanted someone to pay her light bill.
I would have borne her burdens—she gave me the cold shoulder.
I moved out of that town about nine months after she got knocked-up (not by me), and I lost touch, forever.

The unanswered question:
why did this person make such an indelible impression on me?

Princesa 2

IMAGE CREDITS: incaprincess.org
landesfes.deviantart.com

Gnostic Gnonsense & Andean Vistas

Apr19

inca-dream-herge

Lest fellow members of the body misconstrue my Andean longings, let us comprehend,
O loyal connectees, the corporeal metaphor sublimated, transmuted into empyrean fire
and rendered universal by St. Paul of Tarsus the founder of our holy and elect communities, when he wrote:

All flesh is not the same flesh: but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds. There are also celestial bodies, and bodies terrestrial: but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars: for one star differeth from another star in glory. So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption; it is raised in incorruption: It is sown in dishonour; it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.

[I Corinthians 15:39-43]

The decentralized undulating landscapes of terrestrial desire can be confused with celestial bodies, yes, but the astral bodies are free from carnal taint. And it is only in the night devoid of lunar light that the celestial bodies may be clearly glimpsed…

But enough gnostic gnonsense —

let us depart for the lyrical peaks of the Andes with Joel Barlow as our guide. Capac and Oella await us there on the distant and sacred summit.
capac & oella