CONFESSIONS OF A BROWN LOTUS
A mediocre contortionist—
smuggled in the glove compartment
of a ’57 Chevy
I arrived
one foot in the ass cheeks
the other folded beneath armpit
like a catcher’s mitt
Used to be that I daydreamed
in a narrow canoe
on the floral waters
of Xochimilco
back when bees congregated in wax cathedrals & lit veladoras
until military blew ‘em out
In Tajik teahouses I scurry
toward the kitchen in search
of the brew master
slicing ginger thin
cardamom in molcajete
because he is my father
from the hills of Michoacan
dressed in worn jeans
& baseball cap that reads Cruz Azul
Blew across Nogales
in a canteen of cactus pulp
a Swiss wristwatch
set to Mountain Time
arrived in a Colorado tavern
near Raton Pass
in search of The Buffalo
and wound up a Sherpa
for the gringos who paid cash
to free climb the Grand Teton
It’s true—
I sympathize
with the crime of wire
twisted & left to corrugate
& take blame for delineations
only man conjures
Barbs sheathed in hawk carcass
wings wilt in breeze
for the animal who dares cross
I’m the bastard child you left
hunkered on a coffee can
—I’ll say
promised you’d send for me in a year
dummied up the papers
and sold them in Greeley
to the cousin of a meat packer
snatched up in an ICE sting
—I’ll say
I’m the meat forgotten
turning rancid
in Tombstone park
—I’ll say
among the pollos
whose eyes still see
long after the legs
have ran off with the body
—Don’t ask
I’m illegal
the forgotten son of Olmec proportions
my head the size of Mt. Rushmore
with my fat mouth I holler
at flea market chicks in pajama bottoms
toe rings with skulls & roses
I’m the one who bought out the intestines
and monopolized the industry
of underground roach-coaches
This in the millennium summer
but in fact, no money was ever exchanged
I performed the disembowelment
ceremony with my own two hands
the paper mistook it for a crop circle
but it was an old Nahuatl joke
Now I’ve got a sitcom
each week a million faces dial in faithfully
because they know that come sweeps week
after the PBS fund-drive
& before The State of the Union
we fast during sun up
Or is this Ramadan?
I visited the great Stupa
looking to mend the wounds
that I’ve carried since conception
about a miracle boy
born on the wrong side of Orion
seeking answers to the suffering
synonymous with joy
I am nothing but a campesino child
Brown Lotus
of this post-millennial borderland
called t/err/or
I was in Afghanistan when the first bomb dropped
from an obscure bath house
I counted down the Year of the Fire Pig
The day was a code orange
when the Spanish subway imploded
I was prostrating in the bed of an El Camino
on the outskirts of Coachella
onion sheers by my side
I’ve traveled the world
believe me when I tell you
it’s all the same
With two fishermen
I sailed out of Veracruz
and wound up in a Swedish ferry boat
drifting Oresund Sound
I was mustard gassed in a Paris train station
for looking Moroccan
it was World Cup season after all
and the canines were in full regalia
A friend once told me to never turn my back on the dogs
everywhere I went I did so in reverse
This is how I remember
the wine bottles at Appollionaire’s grave
& Jim Morrison’s pitiful slab
fading away
This is how I remember the sea port in Brindisi
fading away
This is how I remember the nude beach in Pelekas
& the Dionysian coves
fading away
In a Brussels boneyard, beneath gutted boxcars
& heaps of coal
I sipped hot beer and thought of you
got up to take a piss
faded
This is how I remember you
your rough hands combing the gossamer
vortex of hair
above my scalp
A penetrable wall
a slat in razor mesh
everything about us
fading.