j.r. Forman
North-Folk in a Desert Land
who will cry for the warlords
who lose their heads fighting
over this desert or that?
who are we—you ask—
who find no man inspiring?
today we depart from las lajitas
tomorrow from the sawtooth mountains
no matter—everywhere lice haunt us
like the spirits of Suma dead
even the Zapatistas sing corridos
about Black Jack’s pony—
that he rides her longer
than Xochiquetzal the whore goddess
and that she has drunk more dust than the sun