Microsoft Word - PROOF7.docx Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     150   -­‐from Swift Cinder CRISOSTO APACHE from fire from ignition buckshot splitting air, cracking space, ricochets off tree bark, tree limbs scattering brush climbing high up into Bear Canyon, into the mouth Wednesday, April 09, 2014, roughly around 3:00 in the afternoon this specific moment and time no different than the odious Big Bang   setting a single course a determinant event billions of years in the making first refractive light against stars lifting split light against lit faces bringing this moment facetiously forward toward a series of collisions envelopment of toiling flame engulfing in combustion gas, subatomic particles obit out of control nucleus circles expansion girds into guard rails flying fenders in swift swirls oil sludge, petroleum, plastic and metal the gestalt sending his ghost into nearby thickets. t’eesh ash flakes fall softly Crisosto Apache “from Swift Cinder”   151   t’eesh ash flakes fall in soft particles t’eesh ash release soft particles t’eesh ash release of all particles leaving a gold vacuum of space there kú’yuu   kú’yuu there                       there kú’yuu,   kú’yuu and there indiscriminate object strewn forming dash board, quick shot echoing along Highway 70 collision translates probability cohesion of metallic abrasion of beauty upon impact birds scatter, birds cease, shot gun blast ricochets again off tree barks darting up the canyon again again again again and again abbreviate oblique asymptote never meeting its predetermine coordination terminus end point destination a formulaic mathematical formula Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     152   approaches a straight line a given course of action curving the only variable bow of equation imminent infinity high rate of speed this straight line continues,   approaching never supposing to meet its camber as significant the value of asymptote we do not fall together from ash to ashes not with fallen flesh but to fall with flesh asymptotic straight line finale skidding perpetual motion in slow motion stills slow motion still preceding months slow motion long vowel continuation constant yearning of the letter ‘o’ late into disappearing night dispersing into the blank wisps of air absolve this swift cinder— —past midnight the following night eardrums ring over silence Crisosto Apache “from Swift Cinder”   153   extending artery encumbers saintly candles burn their somber sway petrol sings scent of sanctifying beeswax odorous incumbent oh how, the flame flickers leaning shadows cast against obscuring walls warp shapes dance burns consummate along minuscule granular surface that chosen scuttle cupped light an aspirate flux silence and amorphous veils cascade after tiny pirouette flares Fragments, only fragments I sink in the snow shovel in the earth in the road in the grass and mountains —Tomaž Šalamun   second section, a slant shoulder impact, his arm extends a patient persistent throw, as flat river stone scathe surface, tapping flight across calm water and mirror light, as though each gripping rock inside his grasp grows tight, muscles jolt in slow motion, gather in a slither, docile stone glides through a sideways slide, silence from a young waif toward moments come hither, to a specific moment with rippling water collides— wait, oh wait, particulates scatter a top laden fuel mistaken for water, can anyone mistake a plausible Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     154   death defying scenario, to sever umbilical as dual wake from dream a wish cannot want, to erase invisible strains of scattering car parts, had he not driven so opposite that hastened his departure, to such a thriving continent,   inside this cricket house, into night, our body lies awake, cricket songs assemble against a judder of paper wings when moth wing dust disperses, light vibration procures a lure into a soaring death flight, twirling center light   ambient background wavers absent into night, our body lie awake a top flagstone, cricket songs assemble scratching their paper wings and chirrup into desert clefts we both gather in our beds, they stay to rub, some hiss, some strike sparingly or first gathers in masses, sand covers arid slabs, water is all around, and slithers as old sediments a crisscross tinder fist, marks intersections, white lines pass back and forth, through and over, then the white bear comes charging, breaking through brush and thicket musters old dirt into heaves of glass, sprays sinew inside wrists and joints, divulges over our toroid air mass empty these demarcate calculations   Crisosto Apache “from Swift Cinder”   155   [4.73-80] relatives afar, in skeletal trailers houses, can see our saunter, his small hands clench mine, there was no rain fall, suckling the half empty bottle of apple juice, over rocks and sand, the hum of power lines tremble, leading us across, into the dusty land of Canaan           [4.81-88] lights flicker at a gas station at Rio Puerco, night insects swirl in 8mm film trails, erect in a makeshift glass ice case a polar bear watches over us, from a distance they enter a bar, late into the evening a few hundred yards away, our eyes leave the stare of a white bear who oscillates loudly over the building [4.89-96] a few drinks in a condo just off a roadway, just off the reservation, in the mountains, longer into a docile night we drank, just the two of us, turmoil courses through our vein, a rage inside rivers, a slippage of rocks and boulders, a reave of engine, a scale of head lamp, a glare of vague human lumbers in a drive way, we could never explain the splay of web oxidizing the windshield [4.97-04] early morning a crack through trees wake a lingering ghost, it usurps into a misty tree line, silent we raise from our bed, a quarter mile down the road, fire fighters pry his body, a brisk morning calls the ghostly finger to pinch his aorta, his body suspends, a mangle wreck, inanimate towards Albuquerque [4.05-12] he returns home after twenty years in a black Chrysler 300, it had deep window tints, a shiny rows of crow eyes, he drives the hell out of that car [4.13-14] one long tire skid mark, burns tar, scorches earth, metal mesh with polymer, blood vaporizes, no amount of liquid can extinguish the slow scald but through boughs, a forest is still a forest, just as a door is still a door, though a door, through a forest, exists or enters this child in it, Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     156   from swinging hinge cross the threshold, this child small and grim finds solace among the boughs a gray hawk in flight, the sedge wren does scatter leaving one feather in a tether as a falling leaf pass over lower jaw bone through esophageal aqueduct, tiny surfeit saliva discharge, detonates fireflies every collapse of breath surpasses a slither of arid forest wind septal septet mortar sings as mute clay expels morsel lips, hastens exonerate bars that trudge pacing meadows, just before expiry, leaves in a hidden grove a smudge of severed branches night moves into diamond sparkle that shimmers layers about our eyes, immerse down into the cradle valley inside a cluster of naked words, reassuring daybreak is still coming, the Sandia Mountains steeple behind, a cascade prediction of early bruise bluish light ascends from the valley below, naked words plucks a floating mimic muddle of silt river, river surrounds phonetic carcass mask with new tongues, we left ourselves behind, let’s call one birth water, let’s call the other fire storm, we left them behind, Crisosto Apache “from Swift Cinder”   157   just as we were all left behind, somewhere between bones of recession and a gullet of inflation, simulating crane clusters, where words chose us, when we lay still, motionless, inside our helpless state, you said to me, under whispers of blowing sands, under whispers of two foolish boys, walking the tight shadow of electric power lines, electric in our need to wonder the outskirts of limestone and the western Tularosa basin plateaus, trying desperately to find a homestead away from death’s small grasp, here we are walking, no stagger, again a bewildering path that leads us both to the same pile of ash, a pile of ash that will eminently fluster   here are all the angles that fasten to one path or another here is the screw impaling beside the roof here is the unreachable us who flail heavenly about here is the path that rips through the back of this child here are the small piles of ash, hidden, to count when eluding the fiery man who empties dried shells threaded on string,   by a corral sinking in manure, here is the fool of a brother whimpering into fingers on a bed full of fleeting words, coral and turquoise here inside the pages, coral and turquoise shedding dust, turning our eyes into red jewel branches I crawl the tall sunflowers where the ground is ardent, in the same way of baptism, and a cross hatches lament, and the arduous ends of hollow rods is an envious company of a false father influences under a waste of trees. Wasted by a douse of lies left under palms for decades, left as welts, forlorn dusk, planks for ill fitted studs turning the hinges, over which your casket remains an array at the moment of your lumber Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     158   execution of carcinogen dust slithers over someplace, binding its fang tracks in pebbles and sand we are still too arid to spawl, too arid to wheeze, as if I can huddle in a burrow fusillade with roots of plants we cannot modify beneath a brush a couple of Hister Beetles dig together through the next world, where no other, we sense, crackles of decay for the fertile many we grimace but we still crouch below, maybe, the entire basin squanders or wastes, maybe the older beetle digresses without progressing toward the vast stretch, over the Tularosa Basin, or how a bird cannot see those blackened specks against the pebbles beneath it, but keep soaring until its wings tire, while the beetle eases lucidly outside their stranger air as we both think this, some roads we don’t run leave tracks, in the slinking dust, we both want to mimic them, and see nothing, the way a skink speeds though arroyos not seeing the belly of birds water rises and gushes and it means everything will wash we both want to be fistulous, Crisosto Apache “from Swift Cinder”   159   a vein or a vessel of powder, impelling, particles into shards. we both want to be beneath and dissolve back into that sludge of birth, and reform the urges of a bottle grip so we can both run while we both sweat, walking on a blustering trail, suddenly many granules among us, in a white bloom, streams fast toward White Sands, among the immense cloud clogging white, we both stream in its seriatim, never breathing in forlorn and against ribs, a fist sprays a bouquet inside bone gullies, we both strains against bruises, it, while thickening inside mother, father, brother ties graphs from skins, the cells that harden long and centric, a threatening impact since, all the fists disrupt us both, who keeps the face in forlorn in forlorn, a bruise that spreads, that strains and eases like bones, like plain bones that decay and leans against the ribs the nature of our face presses up against the glass, flat as an opaque doll face, lucid in the moon glow who will say we are the pale face, lost inside a loose box, a box place on a grey shelf, Transmotion Vol 3, No 2 (2017)     160   for that  eternity, which will never come       our face presses up against the glass, round and distorted inside an everlasting smile who will say we are the pin hole that allows dust to vacate through vesicles unseen, unseen by our opaque eye who will say our face distorts as it presses round against the lucid moon, never coming, against the everlasting smile behind it