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.

Tonight I'm An Orphan

Tonight,

I miss standing on the curve

of the world,

feet planted in dark earth,

toes rooted,

Coyote calling a shivering,

lilting moon

dissolving in God's mouth.

Tonight,

I miss the fields,

hoe in hand,

sparrowhawk rippling the sphere,

and light spinning infinitely.

Tonight,

I miss the terrestrial being

who understood

we are sons and daughters

of the universe

and spirit air we breathe.

In the city of big shoulders

the world does not curve,

my feet are uprooted,

light is finite.

Tonight, I miss being your son, father.

Tonight, I miss being your son, mother.

Tonight, I am an orphan

dissolving

in God's mouth.

When The Distant Whistle Drops Daggers

Tonight, I wait on the westside
of the railroad track, on a strip of sand that stays cool even under the Tejano Sun. Tonight, when Barbas de Oro puts on his sandals and races across the parched earth, when the first star blinks into existence and heaven unfurls its ancient drama, I will wait. Tonight, when La Llorona haunts the children of the lake, when her wails shatter the moon into a million sacrificial canoes, I will eat with her, I will dance with her, I will kiss her dark nipples and drink her bitter milk. Tonight, when the distant whistle at Station #7 drops daggers from the stars -- I will wait for her. I will wait with ofrendas -- flowers and candles, pan and chocolate, tequila, and el acordeón. Underneath the Yutu Tata with a prayer, I will wait -- my whithered hands outstretched, blooming sorrow along the edges, blossoming a flower of grief.

tuesdays

rosario
is happy on tuesdays
mundo el loco
drives her to our lady
of good counsel’s food pantry
she gets beans
corn
potatoes
cheese
tortillas
&
2 boxes of hostess cakes

on the way home
mundo parks by the river
they smoke mota
drink lonestars
rosario gives him a blowjob
& afterwards
they feed the fish

tuesdays
rosario waits for her kids
with arroz con leche
& ho hos
she sings coritos
& mundo dances
his crazy dance

tuesdays
is powerful magic
the leaves are full
of strange language

San Pio

In the night, snakes gather
on San Pio’s one-lane road
-- it radiates July heat.

I stand on the wooden steps
of Juan Bendito’s grocery-store.
A longhorn skull hangs above the entrance,
and wagon wheels line the front porch.

From the south, where stars
burn on the Rocky Mountains,
I hear a guitar, an accordion, and castanets.
An old man, a rooster lodged in his throat,
sifts twilight,
Take the ribbon from your hair,
shake it loose and let it fall,
Lay it soft against my skin.
like the shadows on the wall ...
Then Spanish,
and I know the song belongs to el viejo.

But my thoughts are on the one-lane road,
covered with snakes, curving
into a moon bigger than the earth,
sitting red-eyed among cactus bloom.