Prometheus Lives South of the Border

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Fires of humanity,

Heads of flame,

Oaks of rage,

Creators of myths:

Learned from the valleys, deserts, plains,

Dusts and flames,

Day one was burnt flesh, ignitions, distinctions –

Prometheus lives South of the Mason-Dixon.

Under crossroads, railroads, tire tracks, dirt paths,

A giant fog forged in lighter fluid, moisture set to burn in a moment’s notice,

Uncovering underneath,

Dream visions, incisions on all sides,

Incisions on our hearts,

Torn out,

Placed high in imagination,

Do not lie to me.

Because we burn hotter than hellfire,

And Dante knew nothing of the xicalcoliuqui,

Nothing of what was, nothing of what will be.
Our twisting flames in malinalli pulsating

Deep into our intestines,

Dante could never write this,

    Could never find this in any level of hell,

The weaving folds of fire itself,

The demons you dreamed of,

The Europe you think of, gunned

    Down by brown femmes,

The Europe that gives you cold sweats,

    We are your fearful, climate changing

    Hell raising, fire burning,



The Good lies with us. The Good is within us.

Prometheus lives South of the Border.