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Coba

In the ruined cities
Of my mythology
Coba reigns as a king
As many as fifty-five thousand
Left
City bereft

Ceased to thrive
No longer alive
Didn’t survive
Took all the colors away
Except for the cold, stone gray
And, the spider web roads of white scabay
Tying up the world

No one left now to be the hosts
Except the Aluxob
Who are not even ghosts
They are the red eyed
Dwarf-spirits
Turf-spirits
Earth-spirits
Tied
Foot and hand
To the land
Dancing on the old mounds
Listening to the long gone sounds
Flaunting their invisibility
Just counting the days between the risings of Venus
Not even thinking about the past

While Coba, the City of Ruffled Waters
Is caressed by the winds of the sea
Today we could just pay a fee
To visit your grass filled lakes
And, run on your limestone roads
Climb your temples
Towering over tree tops
Trek beneath your green, jungle breeze
Over your newly mowed
Sunken plazas
Over your shaded, leaf-litter floors
Down your corbelled hallways
Under your sharp, arched doors
Watched by steep, stone staircases
Embellished by hieroglyphic faces
Carved out of meanings which never change
Or, change in the ways the never-changing ocean changes
The way the ever-changing moon is always the same

Together we could pass by hidden cenotes
Deep, blue waters, without waves
We could pass by hidden caves
We could search for long, lost jades
And, earrings made of ornamental flowers
We could call the Aluxob
Who don’t even exist any more
Out of temple towers
Out of dark, half buried vaults
Out of abandoned halls
Out of unbearably ornamented, geometric walls
But, they won’t come
They are busy romping on pyramids
Listening to stones no longer containing music
Drenched in sunlight but devoid of incense
Teeth clenched, humid and hotter than Hell
Cracking rocks
And, tearing down the mountains
To release the ancestors
From the grip
Of Meru Witz

I would be happy to meet you there
Even at noon
At Nohoch Mul
Where the roads originate
Radiate
Straight
From weathered monuments
Decorated with temples as heavy as mountains
Covered with snake skins
Under the auspices of Muluc and the Moan bird
And, memories of bells
Of quetzel feathers
Of obsidian knives
Ceremonial footsteps and God food
Cactus thorns, stingray’s tails
And, a flood of sacred blood

And, in every direction
Spreading perfection
Absolutely white roads
Absolutely straight, straight, straight
Absolutely, I can’t wait
Absolutely, right through the jungle
Straight on ’till morning
Straight on to Yaxun
On to Xcaret
On to intrigue
Forget about fatigue
Running on to here to there
From Coba you can go almost
Anywhere

We could sit together in the shadows
You could be my heart throb
We could watch the Aluxob
The ones nobody knows
Running by the rubble heaps of buried treasures
Stomping in ceremonies without measures
Painted murals
Glowing, hidden
So forbidden
Grotesque, indeed, in their descriptions
Inexplicable in their strange inscriptions
Which even the Aluxob don’t understand
Pyramid climbing
Give me your hand
And, sculptures, inscrutable, unfamiliar
Wonderful, wise, they will bewilder
With fangs and wild, galactic eyes
Oppressive size
Stoic, in full sight of everyone
Washed by the numbing sun

I could meet you right by the steale
Of the Wayob women
Hyenas on the rampage
Waving feathers and clubs
And, jumping on captives
A terrific, honorific, witchcraft dance of
Conquest for commerce
For competition
For corruption
Celebrating that the world is not yet at its end
Summoning the collapse to come

We could just keep going
As fast as you like
Or as slow
Maybe as far as Xibalbabe
Next thing you know
Where did the time go?

Nothing left to show
Everything
Buried under the Pleiades
Under layers of limestone
Under endless cycles of 52 years

But, you are never ready to go
You say the things still there
Are way too slow
Everything
There has already happened
There is nothing soft left in Coba
And, everything is humid and hotter than Hell
All of the plates are broken
All of the smoke is gone
Neither laughter there, nor tears
Neither dreams nor fears
Everything
Gone for eleven hundred years

You say
Even Dante
Would have been impressed
Had he found this new sort of
Dripping with heat, Hell
This pre-Columbian, scorching Hell
This starlight torching Hell
This blinding, grotesque, empty Hell
Where the tallest temple
Had to reach the stars
And, the ballcourt was a confrontation with death

Of course, you are right, as always
We don’t need the abandoned hallways
It doesn’t matter where we go
Or even what we do
I’ll still be waking up later than you
I’ll still be holding your hand
In my hand
And, writing down things
Which I don’t understand

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