Above me the stars tremble
like quartz flakes in a candle-lit cave
and die. My mind is silent
when it dreams, unless
it swallows four tabs of No-Doz
with mescaline, then it screams
in colors while the Oldsmobile
sheds highway
like a blue snake escapes
old skin and begins again.
Turning right, turning left, turning
right into a labyrinth of tequila
and adobe homes, I’m switchbacked
by Pemex stations, cantinas, and mountains
that rise beside me in the salmon colored
smog of dawn. The more I learn
of language, the less I know of life
and loss. The asphalt melts
into a pearl beach, a ribbon of jet set
stores, juke joints, a KFC, and forlorn
taco stands. Acapulco, Mexico sings
a brown Coltrane song of concrete and sand,
discordance with purpose, clarity
in confusion. Cruise ship klaxons and car
horns blow the deguelo of an all-night
mariachi band and produce markets of tanned
flesh call me toward Roceria.
Her tongue pours over my mind
like warm Kama Sutra oil and the quickening
of sunlight traps me in my shadow.
That old black magic has me in its spell
That old black magic that you weave so well
J’ai L’ai rackets and bullfight posters,
Federales so young they still laugh,
grapefruits, bananas, mangoes, and grapes,
the smell of chili powder tied
in humid chords of air with café con leche
and cow dung, everything is real
including the nothing that hangs
on the tourist board outside Sandborn’s diner
where I park the car.
I’ve driven all these miles and years for a note
from her and found this posted on the sterile cork:
“Michael call home.”
“SWF needs ride to Baja – will party.”
“Lost wallet found – empty.”
“For sale, moped – slightly bent frame.”
I can’t dance don’t ask me.
What makes a single kiss
final one day and the next day leaves you feeling
as if the stove’s left on and the whole meal’s burning?
Roceria once told me that only Jack
Kerouac knew the secret of life and I said,
“What? Gallo Port wine in a glass of despair?”
She said, “All humans are really sharks,” and climbed
aboard a crowded bus with her back to me,
her hair braided and swaying, a black metronome
of promise that has clicked through these past
years of memory and brought me back
to the Mexican beach where we met.
She must be fat by now with four kids
and an occasional black eye from her husband
as a badge of love. I must be crazy, still searching
for a goddess who was never more than human
and alone on a school holiday. I must be
that shark of Jack’s, eating everything around me
and swimming constantly, just to stay alive.