It was Mexico at last
mapped in dusty miles of gray
light, silence & iron-lungs.
From where you are to where you
may be going. No way to tell.
“Do you know this road, señor?”
What’s there to know.
“A pinched Medusa, freckled with trail dirt
bitchy light years from Anne Frank.”
She carried a pistol. My words are just
an extension of this. And so it read
“Palm trees grow in poor soil. They
seem to prefer it.” I figured it was
a learned behavior. A shrug as if to
say there’s nothing that can be done
about it so why try. The miles grind away
your heartfelt resolutions until all that’s
left dies out like a struck match. Cerveza,
por favor. Tequila, pulque, mezcal.
A blown muffler, a burned-out piston.
“El Corazon, otra vez?” The journey
ends in bloody disarray, tarnished pesos
& lapsed prescriptions. Tibetan postcards
sent from New Orleans. A sunset
shimmering on a city so far off we can