In Morelos Mexico, at one time, there was a senseless killing
of them. Ignorance of their greasy habits, harbingers of death,
ritual fear. Slaughtered um all, all the way down to Chiapas. There,
they stopped the killers dead. Some tribe, some ancient cult still
venerates the birds’ services. Morelos began to fill with corpses,
even emaciated cows take months to bloat, split, trickle, become
dust. The bodies ran raw into cisterns and waters we believe can
make us clean. The state cursed in their absence. Finally, some
politico worried he might have to make good on a promise sent out
a posse. In every county from the ithimus up through Oaxaca(they
had to skirt Chiapas)they slaughtered a fat calf. Meanwhile, our
heroes shadowed the carnage; once Patricks’ banished snakes now
the pied pipers’ beguiled children. The butchers sat down with
skinfulls of pulque, in ridiculous sombreros, leaning into organ cactus
like cheesy souvenirs, heads bowed, as the carrion worshipers con-
structed temples of white bone, diseased saliva and black feathers.
Carnal tickertape. A wake of spoils. Vive! Imperators Triumphant!

© 2013 Abby Smith, Writer