Volcano Man
Lightning bolts rising,
clapping thunder from the ground,
from infernal gardens of black and yellow,
shaking the tundra and the banana trees,
slicing through the earth with sabers and machetes,
blazing a trail for the devil’s rant
that swirls in the air among the violets,
that looks with keen eyes for a landing place
and a mind that sees the world as a simple garden,
a man who walks and breathes the pacific air,
a man with paper resolutions and clean hands,
a man of an unsteady gait on shifting grounds,
a man with no God to lead him to Zion,
a man with curious tears in his eyes,
and a man alone in his empty dungeon,
an advocate to tie up and stuff full of lava
from the fires of the pits of hell,
to activate the motors that sleep inside him,
to fuel them with a turbulent rage
and send it through his veins, his skin,
to his torso, his guts, his heart, his mind,
and fill it full of war cries and volatile dynamite.
Put a weapon in his hands and a fire in his heart.
Watch him spill his fire over the fertile gardens.
Watch him torch the cherry trees and cottages.
Watch him light up the skies from the devil’s mouth.
Watch him ravage the houses, the temples,
the forests, the hospitals, the nursery schools,
the cities, the towns, the hallowed grounds,
and go on and on and on and on,
and watch him die from the retaliation.
Good-bye little man with your inherited dreams.
So sorry you were the chosen one.
I tried to make it read like Pablo Neruda.
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