Mexico City — Connor Goodwin

I. Going to Mexico City

these mtns, caged
w chkn wire
rubble of the hyway
swept under the mtn’s metal girdle

and the grid of white tubes
from which small birds perch
and no water comes

a great expanse to my left
to my right: the cactus, stones, yellow tuffs, turn signs, window flections
best stare at the seat

lest I see
a yellow dog
run red
dead, now read

heaps of small grey pock the way
some wet and dark
some dry and light and ready to evaporate

              II. Mexico City

              this city is sin
              slanted streets
              cathedrals splitting
              the metro beneath
              turns n trembles
              sets loose pebble
              after pebble in mass,
              the ceiling skies and
              bores down birds
              humming from hard
              red kernels and
              slaughter the
              daily death: – obit
              omit- red sun set
              – bottom of a bottle
              – flatten monoliths

              walking here is
              falling forward,
              stammering on

              best let blood let
              think i see movement
              in this taxidermied
              puma maybe its my
              tremble poor matted
              fur, no tongue to
              groom who has lashed yr tongue
              was it Lazarus

Connor Goodwin can’t stop. Other writing has appeared in The Rumpus, HTMLGIANT, and Chronopolis. @condorgoodwing.