Ruins Mayan ruins, by the beach.
Mayan ruins, ruined by tourism.
Ancient spirit, desecrated.
Ancient civilization, gentrified after ages of elderly pride
stone crumbling at snail speed
composing edifices
measured in decrepit steps
surrounded by restrictive string
and “Don’t Cross” signs,
written small in Spanish, large in English
and though I had hoped to ascend
with Frida and Trotsky at my side
it was not permitted, for if I was allowed
so too would be all of those
pudgy bastards, beer bellies crawling with hair
and these whining bitches, noses pointed dimples wrinkled
their feet would tromp the steps into disintegration
and history would blow the sand by the seashore,
which I witness, perched upon a cliff
sand and waves slide together in unity,
beauty disrupted by teeming ugly tourists
cream de sunblock on their faces, shoulders, chest
and inside their testicles
yearning for release
so that the sun will be intercepted
white skin be protected
everywhere.