Tejano Cornfields

The Harvest Moon is my companion to the Lonestar.
I speak to her, as I did the night
Itzel and I made mad-dog love
and left alien swirls in the cornfield.

The Texas Tornados belted out Laredo Rose,
and we hee-hawed like motherfuckers.
I said, "The moon is giddy-eyed."
She laughed till she peed her pants --
maybe it was the tequila.

The Ghost had no authority over me.
The crooked angel ascended,
nameless inspiration,
nameless fuck

-- I confess --

Itzel’s salty tongue had dominion
over my cherry-blossom heart.
It wasn’t God, nor love of church
designed my crown that night
-- no such notion.

My name glorious and profound in her breath,
in the ruckus of the wind,
in the sacred place at sundown
where stars are confetti.
And you -- you giddy-eyed bitch --
lit us up in living light.
Ha!
Ha!
Moonlight voyeur.

But what the hell am I doing here,

a John Deere, a rusted plow, a collapsed barn,
a chicken-coop, a crumbling six room barrack,
a collapsing 5x10x10 storm-cellar.

What the hell am I doing here,
a whirling, twirling dust devil.

What the hell am I doing here,
mi corazón,
the Texas Tornados crooning, My Cruel Pain,
and skeletons rattling in the cornfields.

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.