Tejano Blues

Six shots,
and still I hear
the accordion wail.
Your foreign voice
-- you winga-wanga bitch
-- transforms my heart
into the neutered black dove
that assails old Mexican vaqueros.

I see you
in the light,
in the distance,
with el conjunto
fifty stones from where I sway
with mi hermano Cuervo.

Pinché India,
go back to Oaxaca.
Your hip-hop bolero
butchers my spirit
El bajo y las tamboras
has me dancing on this gravel road
that leads to your heart,
and la guitarra has me singing second
to your stifled first.

You say we’re too different.
Shit, mi morenita,
we’re both Mejicanos.

Well,
then,
tonight as you sleep,
I’ll go to you and sing
Las Mañanitas.

And you,
chingada luna,
ripe lime in a perfect sky;
if I had my 30-30,
I’d blast a hole in your man,
and let your juice drip
down my salty tongue.