In
San Pedro Sula
You’ve heard it’s dangerous in
there
Coagulated odors, thick in
minions
A fenced-in village of felons
Pigs and raccoons wander food
stalls
Women sell fruit, tacos, rugs
to keep you
From the ground, and themselves
Do not cross the yellow Linea
De la Muerte, guards will take
aim
Have their eyes gouged out
For crossing in. Officials take a
Cut, secure the perimeter while
Fusty air indentures the body
Strongmen rule by edict and
money
Setting rates from $fifty to
$750 for
Cells, or sleep in the corridors
Squirt down toilets, trap rats,
work
The hierarchy as serfs for a cement
Castle, heat-trapping its
subjects
His name is Betancourt, elected
When the last was beheaded
after raising
Rates and hanging men from
rafters
Whose heart was fed to his dog,
and
Tattooed faces from
Teguchigalpa
Howled before they clubbed it
too
Clerks never stop carrying in
Boxes of cigarettes, bananas,
money
Beer is three times the rate
outside
The walls. Drugs or sex, the same
Madness, theft and sorrow,
brawls
So you keep an empty at your
head
Profits are distributed, $6K a
year
To officials. Warden says the state
Would starve them all if he
didn’t
Give the go for profit--profits
make
A little murder, beatings, fear
But keep the rest alive in here
Betancourt
will provide eight security
To
escort you on your tour of
Corrections
Facility, San Pedro Sula
Careful
of the puddles. It never
Dries. Built for 800—somewhere
Over
2,000 are waking up
Under the metal roof. A woman
Hurries
past. You used to read
About
these settings, always rolling
Hills
with patchwork fields. Brueghel
Showed
us happy figurines toiling
Swearing
allegiance to the Lord
While bushido bowed its head and
Caravans
brought riches to harems
Who
clutched silks to their breasts
So
Samurai and swordsmanship
And
horsemen and round tables
Held
court in a kingdom of stone
Today’s
kingdoms reign thru fried
Chicken
fumes mixed with sweat and
Kickbacks
and strongmen clapping
Raised
hands to end a man's
Debts
while hip hop stridently bangs
Forth
against cinder block