I
I see America,
I see the scattered wastes of dove-white seas breaking in the shores of Peru and mingling with the blood of the fallen Inca, they killed him for a few soles,
I see the Empire’s jewels flooding the room and the red line on the walls almost disappearing within the twilight glitter, in the square they’re screaming stalwartly and arms waving, he’s strapped to the horses, brawny beauties from Iberia, pure race, his limbs were sent Wallace to every corner of the Catholic Kingdom, let it be a warning to all of thee Infidels, the chubby Obispo went,
I see the sword unsheathed and digging through the virgin sand drawing the future torture, the squares to hang ‘em, the prisons to hold ‘em, the Cabildos to condemn ‘em, the churches to banish ‘em, all planned meticulously within the sand-castle of his gaze,
I see the sway in the profound waves of the Pacific, beating tears of the blue oceans starstrewn, the eagle unfettered and raising the sun-lings of the East, the drums pound the tattoo and the wake, the wake of the Indian, mud on his face as he lies knees to the ground this cursed Adam taken from his Paradise,
I see the ceilings of the world, the webbed airs escalating the rocky stairs towards the holy heights of Machu Pichu, the atmosphere lingers soundly flooding the nostrils, an ancient chant, a croon fill ears and mouths, the soul of the mountains sing, they know their sphere, they know its turn.

II
I see the blinking traffic rummaging ‘cross the highways, ribbons of gold and crimson vaguely glimmer,
I roam the hushed pillowed streets of the cities and public parks trees girdled of dull crows and newspaper vagabonds, and prostitutes swinging flashy crocodile red purses to half-down windows,
I see the others bare footed on the concrete shores while the cars zoom by them, they have polarized panes, they don’t care,
I hear the sirens sounding dead into the night, the pistols shooting stars of suicide and killed policemen, big chase o’er the can-roofs,
I see their eyes burning, I see them destroyed and shattered by nose-blowing bags in the railroads, black naked martyrs of the underworld fabellas, under the highway either you kill or you get killed,
I see the narrow dust swart labyrinths praying for salvation and fake soled idols, the hooded guy on the corner sells dope, they are cheap, he has kids at home,
I am blinded with the blinding atonement of neon signs of red-white Coca-Cola blazing the sterile pampas and the heights of Machu Pichu, a mate from the North thought it clever, so why not?
I see the fear in their eyes as they go through the routes of Colombia, jungle growing to their feet and eating the pavement, chewing roots and poisonous flowers of the equator, and they come spitted by the green with black faces and machine guns thundering into the cocaine nights,
I see them dark with the rain and dark with the dry winds of the mountains as the snow stroked condor shadows, begging their old glory back.



IV
I see the labor moving worshippers washing their hot crimson sidewalk feet in the fountains of the square,
I see the desolation rows of the city, the deserted streets, as the roaring stump pump tanks and helicopters go like plump black metal eagles on the bumped cobble and the last generation jets piss o’er the symmetrical Governmental Mansion and the brown spraying square fountains drooling ashes and bones,
I see incendiary buses and black yellow taxis consumed, an isolated shot into the night and they know he’s killed himself as the radio tunes his latest speech, pallid faces in the windows keeping quiet, Victor is missing,
I see police stations turned into slaughter houses of South America,
I see the mondo bongo drumming dread-locks in the fair libidinous beach of the black star Caribbean, the buzzed couples raving in the huts as the moontide supple beams ray on their backs,
I see the placid Dictator in the Louisiana mansion by candle light Nicaragua sipping Napa Valley wine and Wisconsin cheese, whistling the Beach Boys, gun charged with Washington bullets while accomplishing his geocentricism as he salutes the paid crowds acclaiming, the vans are doing their rounds, keep quiet and shut the lights, you don’t want to be taken,
I see the gray pavilions and their ragged paper stuffed patios, blindfolded against the cold-biting pole beneath the flag with hands tied and calm heart,
I see the shooting divisions gathering like vultures around and pointing high to the chest, the General watches from the balcony on the north side, binoculars and slight smile, rubbing his beard, maten a ese insubordinado hijo de puta, and bang!