12 poems from México

I wrote these over a series of 9 days in a beautiful country.

—-

Spilled ink
Vegetarian pasta
Puppy golden labrador movie called Marley
Dolly Parton working 9 to 5
Sushi sushi taco taco
That french song by queen celine that’s ok
The others walked to the back to get more coca cola
We talked about how far I’d come in a short year
Now sunset says we’re almost there.

I can’t see beyond the clouds
Buy I can sense it’s simply bliss out there
They have some sort of aboriginal mexican on the 100 peso note

Two made out frequently only to then play on their two laptops
We didn’t get an extra seat but oh well

This is the part of the afternoon when everything gets coated in gold
Perhaps I’ve reached that for even now
With one of modern society’s largest cities below
I am so rich
Blesssed
And travelling the easy path to. Paradise of life.

I think I’m going to like this country.

April 9 2009 5:59 pm

—-

the scent comes back as if it never left my nose,
which is strange, for I’ve never smelled
what the calles de la ciudad de Mexico smell like

jorge our friendly cheap cabbie
rushed the red lights
past the beggars exhaling lighter fluid
and striking matches in front of their mouths

market sweep
the thousands of workers everywhere!
everything is well staffed
either they pay so low they can pay so many
or someone pays a lot for all of these bodies

why do I get the sense it’s the former?

I like pesos,
never needing decimal places
everything is ten times the price
and ten times cheaper at the same time.

and how ten bucks is actually a big bill.

and how 125 bought food, service of four employees,
in a hundred year old building housing
a lovely restaurant chain

where the food was fast,
the servers carried the gigantic plates
usually reserved for assistant managers
and the assistant manager asked us if everything was fine.

speaking of everything,
in walked the white priests in their full easter garb.
i wonder if they are vegetarian.

the indigenous people. who are simply mexicanos, here,
sat at tables like everyone else.

why this surprised me so much,
perhaps fishing lake knows.

four hours in this country
and I already love it.

April 10 2009 12:22 am

—-

4 pesos for two canadians to ride and ride and ride the metro
we might have been a little displaced,
given we had no destination
and rode all the way downtown
only to walk around, turn around
and take off from the same station

lunch at wings, ordering a ham and cheese sandwich
minus the ham, of course
and getting a coffee instead of a refresco for a drink
after a second or two of confusion

flight! that awe inspiring moment when
we leave earth behind
and observe what humanity has done
while serving as this millennia’s caretaker

I saw fields,
dusty circles of some sort of plant life
a ranch or two in between one gigantic bull ring
somewhere north east of the big city
I saw a few swimming pools, but only a few,
and a progressively greener terrain as we
carried on in the brief journey to the coast.

the atlantic ocean, the carribean sea! which of you
came to delight me? or are you both there,
lapping waves at my eyes?
tropical, with animals roaming small areas
and people roaming larger ones.

a moment of bliss to see a child embrace his mother.
a moment of awkwardness to see a foreigner stumble to say it’s hot.
two talking parrots, one who likes me already,
another who is older than me and showed distain
for my relative youthfulness.
coca cola light in a tiny courtyard I wish I could rob
and take home, promising immediately to read through
at least one or two of the classics in the baking but shaded stone work.

we are at the hotel, and we have a bed, and a large balcony,
and there people who mull around on the boardwalk beneath the window.
and then that luxurious sea sits there, waiting cargo,
waiting for fishing boats, waiting for divers looking for coins, apparently.
It looks like it goes out about seven miles and then disappears,
into a blurry line between the clouded sky and the edge of the earth.

this city may be a little crumbly,
and sure, the people may be colonial and indigenous,
mixed together.

but I already like it.
time to go and find a cafe.

April 10 2009 7:37 pm

—-

why it’s so clear this evening
perhaps because I suffer, a little,
in a different way.

the strange thing about how
they suffer is the lack of
pain, however.

this is a good life,
laughing at children who dance
with the best crowd-controlled moves they know.

dancing a little in the square
with random strangers surrounding
a few gawkers on the side.

eating the local food,
prepared with care by those who
earn a little pocket money with their cooking.

photos of family posing,
next to the sailors, the marines,
the boats, fountains or even the sky.

there are fish being pulled from nets,
and children scramble to watch the flopping
just as they sat patiently observing the catch.

there are sea urchins plucked
from the rocks they cling to,
happy in their new containers, unbeknownst what the future holds.

the people are chubby,
indigenous, brown and dark.
but they suffer only from an outsider’s judgment.

this scenario is far from poor,
long from terrible, wrongly assessed as anything
but the good life.

We may have everything,
but I seldom feel we ever notice
exactly what that means. so I suffer alone.

April 11 2009 9:11 pm

—-

There is a corner by the oxxo where we’ve learned to hold our breath
There is a part of town predominantly in the old squares where we learned to avert our eyes
There is a gap in the beach where we’ve learned to stop swimming
There is a conversational topic where we’ve learned to shift focus

Celebration, however, of those who are strategically aligned
Celebration, however, of those who have been lifelong friends
Celebration, however, of the neighbourhoods of success
Celebration, however, of the simple chain store positioning

There are things unsaid
And places unvisited
And people ignored
And topics untouched

And just as common
People and music and parks and beaches and jobs and moments and children and puppies and wealth and relativity celebrated.

April 12 2009 10:57 pm

—-

read from a hand,
nothing truthfully revealing
other than compassion
for the children
bred by poverty.

a thousand sales people
to every guilt-ridden northerner
who ventures here exclusively
out of that guilt.

of course we are captive
to be taken advantage of!
of course, given the money’s minimal impact on us,
it makes sense.

so many outstretched hands.
which mouths do we feed with compassion
and which are doomed
to suffer?

if only, rather than gold plated crosses,
the people were cared for,
like we heretics try to do
in our own little ways.

April 13 2009 11:39 pm

—-

I interrupted a motherly comment
to remark how 99 tables likely meant
there are four hundred people in this particular cafe.

no worry.

it was a mother I cut off,
not a saint.

but what a kind one she is!
besos para los dos, I recall,
as the taxi pulled away
with a night full of memories in the exhaust
and more than a tiny bit of sadness in our faces.

we ate the simple
the cheap
and the delicious.

we walked, arms linked,
through the smelly street,
across the difficult traffic patterns,
between the hordes of tourist mexicans and local mexicans.

we saw the precious
the resting
and the festive dancing.

we noticed the small,
the feeble, the tired selling all the trinkets
they continually peddle late into the night.

and we walked again, and drank again,
and watched again, all the while conversing
about the simple, agreeable and never disagreeable things.

life, food, music, travel, beer, snacks, people,
children, merchants, change, schedules, prices,
clothing, photos, packing.

I will recall a few particulars.
there was a bright pink lipstick that only she will ever wear in my mind.
there was a timid hand on my arm that only she will ever use.
there was a scolding of her son that only she will ever deliver.
there was a flinch to her knees that only she will ever walk.

I have a positive impression,
and that is why I sit
a bit sad
that, while it was a struggle to communicate,
I did,
and now I can’t,
for a while.

dos hombres, she said.
and that was the truth.

April 14 2009 11:30 pm

—-

the basics of life out here.

fire
to clear away decay

ground water
to quench all thirsts

plants, some for export
to cultivate

trees
to shade the weary on their lunch breaks

mountains
to inspire us to remain grounded and small

sky
to shield us from the unknown outer-space

animals
to tend to and provide us with nourishment

people
to find meaning in the basic life of work

nature organizes itself well.
we adapt to that standard
it provides the basics.
we provide the rest.

April 15 2009 1:24 pm

—-

there is a fulfillment in the zocalo
that one is part of something big.
in a space somewhere important.
in a true moment of human history.

the pavement does not explicitly tell,
but there is a good chance many millions
have walked this area.

there is an even better chance those who come here
are likely just as awestruck
by magnificence
as by the sheer number of people
who make their living, or attempt to, in this square.

plumbers for hire.
aztec dancers for payment.
cheap drinks in a bag for convenience.
religious institutions for reforming.
anarchists for a dose of amusement.
poor children for a sense of reality.
crowded buses for an air of community.
tourists for a comparison.

the church, the government,
the streets with the merchants,
the people, the workers,
those clinging to the edge as
the ship sinks, slowly, into the
ocean below.

it may be dry,
this bed of water,
but a feeling of grandness flows through
and reminds us
we are not the first to parse these currents.

April 17 2009 12:19 am

—-

what emperor and government structure existed
didn’t matter, when they abandoned
teotihuacan.

what remains is not how and why they governed
but what they made of their time.

apparently, it is all worthless, unless we tell the story.
so, uncovered, we found the story unravelling.

they left nothing to chance.
the stairs, the heavy lifting of legs to climb,
all numbered and aligned to the facade of the distant hills.
the waterways and the plains, largess in their expanse,
all controlled and centrally planned by the brilliant.
the smoothed seashells, the glistening glaze,
all planted on the ground with a distinct attention to detail.

there is a good flow to such a place.
when there is a purpose to our creations,
they feel right. they have a sense of fulfillment.

no, today, after climbing la piramide de sol,
I know little about who these people were who carried those heavy stones
without transportation systems.
all I know is effort builds incredible structures,
and with a little effort, I will contribute
to such a structure in our lifetime.

even if it is not recorded as such,
I hope the remains linger and impress
in such a way as the heat filled air
around the dusty stone masses did for me.

April 17 2009 10:37 pm

—-

there is no longer an indigenous land
(at least, in population)
underneath me.

now we end what we began,
because that is the way this life goes.

frankly, it never feels long enough
and always feels to be too distant from home.

that is how we remove ourselves
from what is the current circumstance
when we are away.

a scant amount of days scattered in the past
now compose memories rather than
the present moments of experience.

an infrequent attachment to a culture
of sustenance and peace
will quickly be replaced by one of survival.

one would think it would be the opposite,
for we have so much.
but I learn every time I leave, the physical means little.

it is the way the people behave to each other,
as if countrymen and women
as if part of a truly shared experience.

it is the way in which the history is alive,
rather than a taught substance easily diluted
and replaced with minimal modern worship.

it is the way in which living and working are one,
rather than a disciplined distinction between the two,
a path of hardship that seems to bare no sweet rewards.

in our world, we would frown upon such an existence,
but why? why is our time, and our fractured lives,
so enjoyable?

compared to a people who dance in public parks
on saturday mornings
who carry their children every day.

compared to a people who know their history
and live it with an identity
celebrated and embraced by all.

compared to these things,
our existence is meek.
so we return. to try to build such a better life.

April 18 2009 8:27 pm

—-

Why, Orion,
Am I the hunter’s child?
Why the curious niño from
A remote rural village?

I like random moments
When you appear
and suggest to me this is the right path.

I recall them very clearly
Like the cloudless sky above this plane
The plain laid out options
Where we push the window a degree too hard
And tumble into the onyx below
Harsh like mined stone
Or we rest and marvel at the expanse
And think dreamy thoughts
Like how did the mountains truly form out of the sea
And how will I find my next calling

Now at least I know from you,
Orion,
the path so far is correct.

Give me the continual reassurance
So that the shackles of insecurity
find their grip to be loose.

April 18 2009 9:53 pm