When April's sweet showers
Have piercéd the root of
The drought of March,
A soldier-priest
Follows the pilgrim path
Pro Deo

(Pledged to go where king commands,
Pledged to offer prayer and sacrifice
For those who kill to free--
Pro Deo et Patria)

Ad Parramos,
The Church of the Holy Innocents,
In regnum Reaganiensis
A prisoner of war,
Classrooms catechizing torture and prostitution.

Steel cavalry stabled in streets
Pawed at the dusty roads,
Scenting blood;
Racing to the battle,
Diesel engines snorting black,
Saving settlers from savages.

The bugle blast commands carnage:
Cleanse the whole
(Not merely the apocalyptic third)--
Totally depraved;
Infected with an incurable disease:
The hunger of the poor for bread.

Old Mayan men, swollen misshapen feet caked with mud, straw and shit.
Hunch-backed women with pruned breasts patting tortillas.
Middle-aged nine-year-olds loaded with wood, water
Or a hungry, blanket-wrapped sister.

"There's nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning."

Neatly dressed young Van Heusen executives from Georgia
With pretty wives and smiling children
Oversee a new plantation.
Ladino playboys with Gucci loafers and Rolex watches
Hop to Miami for a night at the disco.
Smiling young soldiers in crisp starched fatigues,
Machine guns thrusting through Cathedral ruins,
Preserve freedom.

Parramos resurrexit.
Alleluias ring over the unknown tombs.
The harvest is ripe;
Pressed down, and shaken together, and running over.

Three children wind through the crowds--
Despiséd,
Rejected,
and doggéd.

Tentatively they approach the pilgrim
Resting against a tree,
Tired, and gas-encramped.

An old woman boiling tamales casts a wary eye,
While men with machetes stand guard.

Giovanni,
Garfield T-shirt tattered,
Smiles through rotting teeth,
And reaches out with scabbéd hand.

The primal myth stirs.
        Ancient sagas,
                 Pagan rites,
                         Warrior heroes
Converge,

Kindling a fire which shatters
The restraining chains of the centuries:
        Science
                Religion
                        Civilization.

The god-hero mounts the altar
Beneath the eagle's wings.
Torches burn in the darkness
Reflected in the hopefilled eyes
Of the regathered tribes.

And the twisted black arms of the
Unleashed Primal Psyche
Reach out from bloody banners
To engulf the world
In the rhythm of the Dance.

The bleached bones of the goddess temple
Lie scattered over the treeless shore,
And the solstice sun exposes
Her once carefully concealed private parts
To the curious gaze of a solitary modern pagan
While academicians in airless offices
Ponder broken figures and wonder:
        Was this god male or female?

While in the shadow of the glittering temples of Mammon
Stands a makeshift altar in a place of play
And a hopelessly outdated high priest
Of an irrelevant faith
Elevates a meaningless symbol
And 300,000 youthful voices
Sing with renewed joy
Before the silenced, non-blinking eyes
Of the cameras of the world:
        Christ has died!
        Christ has risen!
        Christ will come again!