Skip to main content

Tales of the Aztec King

ISSUE:  Autumn 1974

Nobody knows what anything
means anymore.
Sea-turtles run inland
at birth.

The spectacled
cannot decipher
the strange pictures

carved by the 
Aztec Kings.

In Antarctica, Little
America freezes
and Scott’s film of the last

or afternoons,
alive seems oddly
serene: “Hope is on
the way,” he wrote,

misspelling it
from the

cold. It is normal to chew
the dead leather
of shoes and with Donner
one and

another. Yet
after all, no one
painted that and the
names of friends drift

in and out
of doorways

in the electric ruins
in which I live, like
dreams of pizza and beer,
and we

move on our slow
bellies in hungry
and invisible
silence across

the frozen


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading