San Bernardino
A Razor
their mouths gape open
in awe and despair
the wind blows down their throats
drying up their souls from the inside out
making their voices rough and cynical
making their tearless and
glazed over
a valley of people with eyes
like the rock lizards that
run under their feet
a valley of the people that dress
of mountains that bury them
alive for their sins
and they all turn away from holy
little Bernard
as he bears his cross to the top
of the freeway interchange
his feet burning from the hot pavement
his head bleeding from the crown
of citrus thorns
his side pierced by the yucca spear
as sweet young Mary runs down
Mt. Vernon Ave. in high heels
applying make-up as she goes
she watches in confusion while he is
crucified, inverted
to keep the smog in the air
and the blood in the ground
the mountains lean back hard
away from the ritual noise
while the last arrowhead can not
quite point a direction
for you to escape