Hermosillo

We went to Mexico. Hermosillo, blinded by desert dust and the heat and the weed. Late nights in Tucson before the crossing. The soft lull of dawn. Nights on the porch, windows open to the lilt of mockingbirds in the mesquite in the morning. Mimicking other birds’ calls. Faking ‘em.
And in the pale moonlight on the long abandoned streets of the capital city, Hermosillo, rung by fake lakes and brown hills stabbed with antennas blinking red and orange. Blinking off. On. We ate tacos at a corner taqueria. Bright lit. The taco men leaning in, pointing to the salsa. Shadows under dark eyes. He pointed. Chiles, si. Alla. I piled chiles on my styrofoam plate and ate them one by one. The roof of my mouth, burning. My ears filled with dry cotton.
Tomorrow we will unite. We will unite and revolt. We will make things happen. We will we will. We walked through an empty promenade. Moon glow. Soft pedestrian lights. A quiet wind fluttering the leaves of mesquite. We walked till the main road, lit by head lights and tail light. The sound of reggae. A pool hall. Corona buckets. We found a table. Ordered a bucket, waiting for the drinks. Lit smokes. Eyed the clientele. White men. Mexican teenagers, looking cold and mean. Watching us watch them. We turned away. Solidarity. That is what I meant to convey. We are one. Unite. We ordered another around of Mexican beers and drank them with salt and lime. Lick my face: salt. Lick my flip-flops: walk of life. Back in D.C. we fought for something. Anything. Here we were mockingbirds. Singing, singing, confusing everything.

soft ragga / drafts

There was a night this week that changed all future nights, and no amount of dancehall will restore stomachs to earlier states.

There was a noise, and a darkness, and now there is a search for small spots, shedding light on stages.

It is cool outside, desert leaves damp and frosted. Nest of hay: rafts in mud puddles.

The sun is out, as it was, and will be. Burning away buoyant clouds. Small mountains sturdy in foreground.

Is this how it feels to lose earth
or to recognize, and remember?

puffing hispanic

The Pima County Sheriff came in, asked if we'd seen a large Hispanic man "who'd been puffing." There had been an incident down Romero Rd. Police were in body armor and the neighborhood was in lockdown. The sheriff had been chasing after the puffing Hispanic but lost him when he turned the corner. We had not seen any puffing Hispanics, we said. The sheriff was disappointed.

dsert notez

" s man is in exile from i sfamily, from is pain past.  We meet him in the midst of this exile.  the end may involve his return to family, perhaps a physical return, or emtoion or symbolic. Daughte rlovs him but his scared of him, uncler"