Paddy Garcia
Once the slim white promise of manjana turned his eye
In Sante Jose's dog and littered alleyways
Defiled by sun and the smells of liquor, slop and the
Chiming sounds of children amid the catholic bells
Paddy Garcia watched her soul gutted
By the corrupt bayonet
An agent of government or an admirer
Driven by the gods of impotence and jealousy
Paddy too was shot and left for dead
Among the dank dust
In a red-tanged corner of the cactus haccienda
Appostles come and go like shaddows
Slip through the brittle accacia
Behind what arrogantly poses as
An important place of worship
Among these wraithfull or soul sparked women was one
Pancho Villa who loved Paddy
This man consumated his love by tenderly, excruciatingly
Removing the spattered mass
With the tip of a red hot billet
Crudely effective
But leaving a nasty scar below the shoulder
And so the revolution began
Not with the betrayal of Zapata or as miguided sources have it
As a search for the soul of humanity and unity of brotherhood
But closer to home with an acute
And at first disappointing understanding that
They could never be, as man and wife say
And later as they travailed the cols and graces
Of the Lacandona
The beauty and warmth of the forest
Filled them with a bond as silent as the empathy
Of the trees and creatures therein
Like the same landscape in full sun and by twilight