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