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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v223) (the August 2011 Issue, You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This is also in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Moving the Earth” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

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Head-on Collision, early evening

Nathan Riggs

The cops didn’t see the indigenous mutiny
of traditional eruptions speckling these arms;
didn’t ask for proof of prophetic assurance
or prescriptions for diseasiness, discontent.
They didn’t plead to read the arrangement
of queer braille on my legs, the propaganda
etched with voices and stitched in scabs.

(At that moment, I remembered my Dad,
how he saw spirits peeking through the holes
in the rusted floorboard of his ‘79 Chevy,
clinging desperately to his chassis
like lampreys on the belly of a shark)

In my defense, I was sick. Voodoo Sick.
Stuck with pins and needles too many times.
Mayans have braided stories into my skin
and Quetzalcoatl seeks a new sacrifice.
These are things that I have learned
and agreed to accept in exchange
                —for what?

(Dad says the end is near
and there’s nothing we can do
to stop the coming slaughter)

Oh, my dear heartless priest—
I’ve bled all over now; how is it
that you’ll divine what is to come?
My own transmission has leaked
and covered the road in slick queries.

I’ve been extorted, accused,
derailed by charlatan conquistadors.
So please forgive this impulse, disdain,
these leaps of logic that leave me empty;
please forgive the poison spillage
as I slowly tow away.

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