They Say I'm Too Mexican

The bull in love with the moon
waits impatiently for night.

palmas

El Negro looks for a lover
he hopes he never finds.

palmas

The dove mourns
the evening light.

palmas

Do you hear the bleeding accordion,
the wailing guitar,
the tango in an old wound,
the rooster en el borracho’s voice --
his 30-30?

palmas

They say I’m too Mexican
as if it’s a sin

-- chingados, que onda.

palmas

palmas

palmas

I had a fighting cock, Picoso.
Against my grandfather’s wishes, I fought him.
No spurs --none of that shit -- talon to talon.
When grandfather found out, he took a strap to me.
I said, “Abuelito, he won,” but he wouldn’t hear it --
the six foot two hundred pound brawler
who clubbed adversaries into submission,
who always said to me, “No te rajes. Se un macho.”
So when I fought Angelito,
five years older and sixty pounds heavier,
who detonated my body with every blow,
who snapped my head back with a right uppercut
that jolted my balls and shriveled my dick,
I didn’t quit.
When he thumped me with a left hook
that puckered my ass and shot a hundred fucks out my toes,
I didn’t quit.
When he butted, forearmed and elbowed me,
I didn’t quit.
My grandfather’s fists became my fists,
his fury my fury, his jaw my jaw;
& from the deep dark well of big balls and hard cocks,
rage –

They loved the machismo in me,
the Azteca in me,
el gallo in me.
Grandfather said, “Cabron,
you should have knocked him out.”
I yelled, “We won ,” as he took the strap to me.

The moon appeared without haste.
Picoso’s crooked shadow cracked my skull.
His crows bled my wrists --

I fought him.
I fought him.
I fought him.
Then one night, he died.

I honored him the only way I could.
I cooked him with zanahorias, papas, chiles verdes,
repollo, calabaza, and maíz.
Grandfather stumbled into the kitchen,
sat at the table, played the guitar, sang and ate with me.

As the moon vanished, I released a coyote-yell,
it was Picoso’s crow.
Grandfather and I danced as Azteca Eagles
going to their death.
And when the sky opened like an Easter lily,
we wept, but it was a good day,
and we were chingones.

palmas

palmas

palmas

Do you hear the bleeding accordion,
the wailing guitar,
the tango in an old wound,
the rooster en el borracho’s voice --
his 30-30.

palmas

palmas

palmas

They say I’m too Mexican
as if it's a sin
– chingados, que onda.