Chicanos Eaten by Icelandic Trolls

Kids are lighting fireworks on the two streets that make a Horseshoe where the Dallas county line breaks off into anarachy; a word that looks like two lines of dirt made by the same child’s hand. Mrs. Peña’s kindergarten class was just released an hour early to jump the junkyard fence and make a phalanx of Oldsmobile and El Dorado bumper/ hubcaps. My Mexican Grandma, in the mint shrub, is hiding with a Holy-Water Nerf gun, bracing Sancho, the Pekinese with a sinus infection, and the only creature that can smell Eyafjallajökull smouldering high in the South of Iceland, in which molten pebbles are ruing into giant Monsters. The gas station attendant is handing out horoscopes by the scoop-ful to willing truck drivers flooding out the neighborhood. The rosewood Apartments have all boarded up. The pecan trees are shaking. The bicycles are turning. The kids are popping wheelies in the park, where the drug dealers are making ends meet. The cottonwood is sneezing over Metz Street into the chasm of fresh laid asphalt, still steaming. A farm Of illegal goats, and hens, and Santeria clinics are filling up with immigrant families huddling over coffee on flickering stoves… Ash rises into a mushroom cloud, then settles In the wake of 15 foot trolls with hammers and spears. The tear up the flowers beds, they paint the houses muddy, sienna, and sandpiper browns. They put up foreclosure signs. The kindergarten class charges. Sancho’s lone tinny bark can be heard in the distance. The elementary school bells ring. A sea of dirty Tired Cheeto, hot funyun, handball children Mount their father’s pick up trucks and slam into the front-line. Blood torrents into the air like geysers. The phalanx is half-dashed into the playground. Trolls with their milky eyes look over the heads of men spotting little hope for pillaging, and turn back around toward the North Sea