Fire Falls

Fire Falls New Graphic

The Descent begins anew,

Stumbled a thousand times upon

The pavement stones and

Will again a thousand more.

This Son of Man, in his infinite

Courtship with disaster.



He tasted the splinters

On his mouth.

His crucified tongue

Lolled and sagged;

Sisyphus against the soft tissue,

A cage for words.

And the Word was made Man

And he walked amidst

Our sacred kin.



Acceptance, repentance,

We shall not suffer

The injustice of the damned.

If Christ were to look away

Justice would be swift and divine.



God scratched His barren chin, perplexed.

He never had promised perfection

That differed from mankind’s

Circular contingency. He sought the

Beauty of a death that

Could not have been foreseen.



They named Him seven billion names.

Instead of a cross, or digging His

Own grave, they made him weave

The web of the everyday;

Television, frozen dinner,

Fast food, no sleep,

Working-all-day extravaganza.

It hurt less the first

Time around.





A disenchanted R. Frost;

“And of course there

Must be something wrong

In wanting to silence any song.”

The cherubim, in disgust,

Have turned their heavenly gaze

Earthward. There is no shame

In wanting,

In casting shadows where

The sun has never set.



He sat down to eat,

Synthetic pork on a plastic tray.

A feast in honor of dying friends.

The foam on the cups

Got forever stained

With the heavy fluids

Of an ink stained brain.

He was beginning to love them

A little less.

No betrayal, no redemption.

Not a furtive kiss on the cheek.

They finished their meal in silence.



Fire falls.

Scorched Earth, a tree stands among

The rendered valley.

Armageddon is but a place in time in

A child’s tearful prayer.



God enjoys a good game of dice;

Infinity gambled.

He foresaw his own demise,

Yet craved the silence that follows:

The fall and shattering of glass.




All snakes have learned the word.

Grown blind, they have, these Men

And their winged hunters.

Trees now stand where the

Stone chapels of worship once were.



For six days He did bleed.

The Holy Red fed the salted ground and

A blue flower did grow at

The foot of His neon cross.



The new altar for

The Son of God is

The absence of Sin

In this new Dadaist representation of

Ambulatory humanity.



Fever-pitched, the bodies of

Earth tremble in quakes

Under the gentle caress of Serpentine forms.

And thus, Oh! Child of Man

Pray to the Great Foresaker.

Brace, oh, the brittle and mortal frames.

A reign of snakes welcomes

The New Millennium.


Yamil Maldonado Pèrez was born in Puerto Rico, where he currently resides. He studies in the University of Puerto Rico, Rio Piedras campus where he majors in Philosophy and Comparative Literature. His main interest lies in the processes that underlie the evolution of mythology, Christianity in particular.