Rigorous
Volume Two, Issue 1



Jose Trejo Maya


Underground Cave
Graveside

Held his hand with the weight of hope
even when he spoke in shriek’.
There wasn’t a voice or audible sound.
The corridors stood still as if
the wind had never breathed.
Oxygen on the mantle of the earth
only the hand shaking without any pulse.
Everything was as how heavy silence weighs
in the dark every object was to stay as the hearth.
An archeologist’s preview:
seizure activity within our hearts
tore out any last reminisce.
Our _______ had turned into stone
or dyed into another birth?




Black [Again]

Blue sage smoke
            hovers to the ethereal realm of snow.
You’ll feel the ice chill.

The slightest word: no.

In the jade glare know of one’s eyes.
[I never really cared about anybody that much]
In that fire when tears
or sweat drops like fears.
To know you have nothing left?

But these words
to carryover and flower.

Blue sage smoke
            covers the near reflection of the burning sun.
            Camouflage an image in cardboard
            you cannot explain.

You have to hold the sword.
Speak:
in a modern language,
shatter the code hidden in.

Blue sage smoke
            even still in a hundred degrees
            the physique –ice cold.
As when you meet a woman’s eyes.
[I never really cared about anybody that much]

All I’ve got left’ my moms,
who mirror the god’s.
They brought us all back
to wear these facades.

Find out then control the elements:
the wind, the water, the fire.

Then:
Blue sage smoke
            turns to stone –words.
            The weight of the pen
            adroit cast to say:
[I never really cared about anybody that much]




[No Names]

I know you’re reading this poem:

while I listen to rivers flow.
Economics ebb
you’re dying slow.
There’s refrain in your words
still man sharpens man
steel sharpens steel.

I know you’re reading this poem:

then the lights are off
fades the glitz and the glamour.
Here the poor are made of armor
not to say valor or marble.

I know you’re reading this poem:

yo this ain’t prolific,
others wrote on stones –hieroglyph scrolls.
But what of these words that can’t be borrowed?
All I’ve got is my experience to carry me through the horrors.
Like the ethnographers research based
to retort the connivers.

I know you’re reading this poem:

what’s this the hundredth time?
Sending flowers –cempoaxochitl
to revive urns to funerals

reading/residing –rest in peace.
You know the usual death comes in three’s.
Like the shore how do you measure life?
By what you did not.
[No Names]

I know you’re reading this poem:

now change roles:
the tides still ebb and flow.
While the gang wars rage on
but whose getting them veteranos to truce?
[No Names]

There’s refrain in your words
still man sharpens man
steel sharpens steel
c/s


Jose Trejo Maya: "I was born in Celaya, Guanajuato, Mexico, where I spent my childhood in the small neighboring rural pueblo of Tarimoró and wherefrom I immigrated in 1988. My inspirations include Netzahualcoyotl, Humberto Ak’abal, Ray A. Young Bear, Antonio Mendiz Bolio, Juan Rulfo and James Welch. I have been published in various literary journals/websites in the UK, in the US, in India, in Spain, in Australia and in Argentina. I was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2015; I was awarded Tercer Premio en El Centro Canario Estudios Caribeños El Atlántico en el Certamen Internacional de Poesía en 2016 y una Mención de Honor en el 58vo Concurso Internacional de Poesía y Narrativa 'Fusionando Palabras 2017.' While in ceremony with Chololo medicine men in the Tule River Reservation, I dreamt the above written prophecy."




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