HOT RAVAGING ENERGY, as verdant, tropical, pungent and fertile as the floating gardens of Tenochtitlan. The Azteca’s bloody temple stone steps drip with human sacrifice, her lips scald you with hot chocolate, her skin is encrusted in golden flakes of sugar and maize. One must cultivate this feeling. One must navigate her floating gardens using flat-bottomed boats that glide across the surface of the well of skulls, the heaps of sacrificial bones and tiny colorful canal fish, the rows of golden maize glinting up in the sun like the teeth of the gods showing the way out, out through the darkness of the abyss, out into a sunshine world where one breathes to exist, where sex turns up red clay dust and all is in bloom, where the hand reaches down to feel its way through the tangled vegetable patches, the codex lips part to seep and drip like moisture from the old stone walls, away and away into the gardens, the wet lushness of under-foliage, until all is resplendent and shines polished like obsidian. This is how we lie down to sleep, under the moon of a place some call Mexico, beneath the high grasses and fruit trees. Here are the gardens where we drift and dream and make love entwined.

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