Los Diarios Mexicanos

Frontera
José was still staring at the TV set
With his snake eyes.
A cowboy they called Fried Chicken
Yelled suddenly:
- Industrialization and economical development!
- Industrialization and economical development!
A bull trampled him over,
Quickly followed by the appearance
Of a sun protector commercial.

It rained for 11 days.
No one had ever seen
So much rain over there.
Truth or Consequences.
23 inhabitants. Arizona.
Johnny Cash always playing.
It is told that on full-moon days
One can hear it on Route 66.
A life’s walk from here.

Snake Eye calls,
Projectil, Mangas Coloradas and Manuelito
With a sharp slither of his tail.
I wonder what four Apaches
Were doing in a baroque apartment.
- Je pense à rien...
- José! José! Fuck! Or fuck yourself!
He still had chicken blood in his mouth.
It had been a good night.
- You’re walkin’ on the railroad tracks…


Tijuana to Cabo San Lucas
13hrs cigarette
Rain smoke
80mph night
Desert eyes
Mexican sun
Straining beer
Hand dreaming
Eyes open
Mind thinking
South, south
Can no longer float.



Huitzilopochtli
Huitzilopochtli knows Death.
They traded carved jaguar claw warriors
And staged flower wars with Cihuacaotyl,
Since childhood.

The eagle perched in the Nopal Cactus
Is not estranged to the pyramids'
Pain incrusted obsidian.

Tenochtitlan has glorified Blue Heaven
In blood spilled ritual terror.

Then comes Cortez,
A professional hitman that dislikes his trade,
A good fella, spamming a mean stare
On Quetzalcoatl's feathered coat.



Guadalajara Square
I fling my crave
To slice your vase
But the red carnation
Doesn’t flinch
From your teeth.

You wear

A cotton white dress

As we dance

In a Guadalajara

Fiesta square.


Night Watch
Compressing the dress under,
Becoming a girl,
Five fingers beneath
That South-American sky,
Thick sleeved sweat,
Bells ring,
Feel like they feel,
Like they feel like knives,
In a Mexican church,
Maniac clock,
Watch within the torso,
Counter clockwise
To the progress of the sun,
Using the blade 10 inches deeper still,
Happy birthday,
Unfolding in murder,
Tonight we sleep on empty sexes,
Love’s children have no name,
Tequila,
Sundance,
Feel like they feel,
Like they feel like knives,
Pop that gun,
Kill me round,
(But not too much)
Let it rain,
As a kiss (sour)
Make me feel like they feel,
Like they feel,
Like they feel,
Like,
Tonight I’ll sleep in empty cutting edges.

Oaxaca Cathedral
Too many bones crossed the tomb,
The Sun setting at sunset,
Candles burning to burn the world,

As black shawls wane penitent votes,
Ave Maria…Ave Maria…Ave Maria…
I take the cathedral’s azimuth

And see, sitting idly
Across the aisle,
On the other side, part lit,

Death,
Grinning under its sombrero,
With eyes that request me alone.

- Here they call me La Muerte.
It says with Anglo-Saxon deep tone,
I could swear it looked like Hemingway.

- Beautiful, wouldn’t you say?
What could be more Baroque?
Everywhere light and shadows,

The saints robed in gold,
Robbed from the poor,
Light and shadows,

In purple and wood…- Some cyanide candy?
It gently offers and I politely refuse,
As it takes one to the mouth.

- Yes. I thought as much…
Not enough of a believer
In the Savior’s Paramedic abilities.

La Muerte smiles and gently bows
Like an old Spanish Don,
Sombrero in hand,

Taunting as it passed the doors:
- Perhaps next time señor.
Perhaps next time…

"Muere la vida, y vivo yo sin vida...”
Yet, though I was sure it was not there still,
I could swear it sounded like Lope de Vega.