THE ART OF THE VIGILANTE

Something there is that loves

a mask, needs darkness, yearns

for a muzzle and blindness,

the silence of zip ties. Some walls

love the cold, wind Minutemen

to soldier along the border, celebrate the Alamo,

the thwarting of the Plan de San Diego, Niña, Pinta,

Santa Maria, memorize the year 1492.

Animus is a prickly

pear, lines gelatin powder in women’s underwear,

connects my father to a Mexican mother

land, convinces him

to make America great again. Some things

have zero chill. Where are we, güey, that rivers turn

red, and the dead’s tongues dry blue. Under stars

we scab together

like saguaros in the desert.

There weren’t enough Spaniards

to fuck the Indian out of us.

  Out of you.

There is no flower                                       that su-

stains the field.

When will we wade out of hate?

Speaking from behind sheets, galloping on horseback

with noose in hand, our notions swing in the breeze.

My consciousness is a cut eyehole.

So, galloping on what others have said and thought, yelling,

we circle a rancho and burn it down, and move on to the next, silent.