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VIA CRUCIS -- the way of the cross



we leave the Franciscan church in the park
after judging and whipping and condemning Jesus

turn down the blocked street left
escorted by cop cars ahead and behind

faces at the window peeking through curtains

people on balconies watching
this sad, slow procession
through the old streets of the north end of town

moving mass of humanity
I step on someones heels I wasn't looking
while scribbling these words

beg pardon are you all right yes

perdone tu pueblo perdoname señor

the crowds are singing

we crawl past Coahuilla Street under power lines
draped with shoes

more balconies and midrange economy hotels
where they wait and watch

their own road of the cross will lead them north
to work here

or there, on the other side, beyond that iron wall
and filthy river

HOTEL BELEN todos los servicios

Sala de Belleza Baja Cuts
on the border between language
we are going to kill the Christ today

At the corner another prayer and more singing

more whipping, whipping, shouts
GET A MOVE ON WALK MÁS RAPIDO CAMINATE

algodones cotton candy and paletas popsicles
cry the street vendors

ting a ling ding a ling under the powerline shoes
in front of the gathered hotels and corner school wall

our father who art in heaven hail Mary mother of God

streets blocked off in every distance
silence of no cars nearby

only the tread of feet and echoes from megaphone prayers

and three cop squad cars following behind, shepherding, herding
their lights flashing slowly but never a siren or honk from

them

only the silent, crawling, pushing forward at the tail end of this crowd
where I wander scribble scribble scribble

amid the straggling sheep crawling forward toward the sacrifice procession
with their whips flashing in the air above three upraised burden crosses

Roman soldiers, weeping women, two thieves and one messiah

get the hammer and nails, boys, he's back again
in this vicious ironic brain against the empire

the streets are opening again behind us to let the regular traffic flow
in its right angle channels of this further zona norte where someone
loafing on a street corner will sell you a maryjane zigurat's worth
wrapped in tin foil for a lousy dollar and then turn you in to
his buddy the cop, if you're lucky

and unlucky...           don't wanta no, know?  No.

But not today.      The migrants hoping to cross and the drugdealers
                       planning to doublecross all step back
 and a mass of walking middleclass Christians march together down
  these dusty streets      to celebrate a man we killed
two thousand years ago        aye the devil still has his
   hands full playing both ends against the middle

¿Did you see him sneaking around in the shadows of Jerusalem
        in Mel Gibson's latest film poem passion?

That was nothing.              Only make believe beauty in a crystal drop of Holy Sweat.

             Down here he looks every day for fresh victims to hurl
                across the line, into my empire, my love, my people

who don't want to wash our own dissssssshes or dig our own cocaine vegetables

           a y e                   tis a bitter pill

                out  on   the    edges     of     OUTSOURCING   drugs

    a n d                     m  i  g  r  a  t  i  o  n


and sweet, old fashioned prohibition sin
 where we yankees and rebels run away to

                                  M e x i c o

 forgive us Lord                          forgive your people Lord

          we who kill your Son     t o d a y


LOOK - there's the MOLINO ROJO   sign

                                             ancient testimony from a vanished nightclub
                                           it's only a parking lot today


an old lady is watching me scribble

                         whips are flashing through the air up ahead,
                         beyond the crowded hundreds with their baby
strollers
   and
         baby carriages
                              and children eating popsicles
                                              drinking water and juice and sodas



and all the people on their balconies

                         two women hanging clothes on the rooftop
                         look down and smile


we pause again
more prayers and preaching

                 then move forward
                 out of the mouth of Baja California

into the rebuilding piece of lower Revolution
past the mouth of all sin and sex, Coahuilla
bright and shining in the mid-day light
we go on
        we go on
                we go on

                            up the new yellow and red cement
                            up the shining ornamental sidewalks
                            from the mouth of delicious hell
                            toward the silver parabola 
                            14 stories high

we mass together behind the romans and Jesus

                               to climb up the little hill
                               that marks where the river used to flood

up toward the gigantic arch
hundreds of heads and torsos crowding together
                  rising up from thousands of feet
                       pressing forward

                            a mass of people climbing up

OH MAN
    I could kick myself for not having a camera

                                  the hundreds of dark clothed pilgrims
                                          the hundreds of dark clothed marchers

                                 the shimmering steel arch
                              the beckoning streets and 
                         smiling pastel cantinas

the whips and red Roman soldiers

                                    a scattered cluster of tourists in Easter
                                    beige short pants and t-shirts

watching

                    Oh my God look it is something really Mexican


    Mommy what does it mean?








                 scribble scribble scribble


                       the cables of the giant arch 
                are         thrumming over my head


thwack thump thwack thump
                         in these
                                 springtime breezes of California

and we turn, all of us, under the gigantic silver arch

turn past the broken butt-end of fake aqueduct arches

    down into the narrow canyon of twisted First Street I follow the crowd
    back toward the cathedral church two blocks away where we will
    nail him to a cross between two thieves and celebrate

           this ancient human sacrifice

     for    life        and        salvation         and          e t  e   r    n     i         t             y



But not yet.  Still we must get there.  Down the narrow street of bars and cheap
restaurants where old grease smells and rotten bars cry out for my dollar, your dollar

It is truly weird to see this strange, narrow, border street filled wall-to-wall
with human bodies marching and praying and singing

I am so used to walking here and sticking to the sidewalks
to save myself from rushing traffic 

                               but now we are
                               all crowded together walking down 
                               the very middle of this street

I     am          n o t          s u r e


when  I  should stop writing








maybe
       now

                yes

not apo strophe remember

No