Tijuana Book of the Dead Read online

  “Tell you what.”

  He spits. He hooks the winded Jeep’s lip.

  Lifts it from the sand. Guts

  the drive train out of it and tosses it

  in the Chevy rig.

  “I’ll strike you a deal right now.

  I’ll tow you 40 mile out of here

  For $90 cash money.”

  • • •

  The Jeep fights the hook, bucks

  all the way over Starr Pass,

  rocks us like a rowboat in chop.

  Bravo says: “You been to Ohio?”

  Ohio?

  “Ohio, man. They got a blue hole down there,

  gobble you up.

  Just this bottomless pit

  fullup with cold water.”

  We could share with him something about

  bottomless pits.

  “One time they dropped weights down in ’at sucker—

  they went down

  and down

  kept goin and goin.

  Seems a fella tried to swim a team of horses

  crosst there and they sunk to the bottom.

  Come up, later over to

  New Hampshire.”

  He spits.

  “I shit you not.”

  He shifts right between her knees.

  “This guy I know, he ran into a fourteen foot

  catfish in this one dam.

  I gone down there fishin

  and this dude pulls up in a tow truck

  and slaps a bigass pot roast on the hook

  and winches it out and drives up the beach

  and pulls himself out a six foot

  bass.”

  Bravo breaks down

  three times on the road.

  He gets out and sticks his head

  into the Chevy’s mouth.

  Inside,

  we fight.

  “I caught a jet-jockey over to my wife’s place.

  I threw his ass in the pond.

  He’s like, I don’t want no trouble.

  And he covers up like a boxer.

  I’m like, Well trouble done come.

  So I break his arm in three places.

  And I break his jaw in two places.

  And I say to my wife,

  You better get out here—your boyfriend’s

  in the pond getting all wet.”

  Pulling into Benson, he tells me

  the astounding news: “Mexicans

  tear open their own shirts

  as a sign of grief.”

  Bravo

  takes all my money.

  He unhooks the Jeep and leaves me in the sunset desert

  with my drive train still

  in his truck.

  Car hopeless—dead in the dirt.

  Just like that first wife

  drove off one later summer.

  But that year

  I would just start to walk.

  I would walk till it was dark, dark,

  until the stars sifted like sugar

  down the naked peaks

  and I would not pause

  to tear my clothes.

  Codex Colibrí

  Ce anáhuac,

  sweet ome-Chi-kah-go:

  pure rust spires prairied

  to the trust of the wind,

  lake effect snow trussed

  to glass-eyed towers

  staredown falcon nests

  on ledges above Lago Michigan

  sacrifice hearts of palomas

  dive from balcony pent

  houses: gold caves for tribes

  of bankers, high potted gardens

  geraniums, tomatoes, pot

  reaching for dawnlight:

  • • •

  splayed corpses of polluted

  doves on Wacker among walkers

  among hungry mazehuales

  sleeping in boxes of old

  hi def Toshiba 60”

  ritual screens.

  Tochtli xihuitl: the winter count

  breaks into days that carry light

  from morning to Grant Park

  to the great Tlaxochimaco, offering

  of flowers, blossoms bust

  open blacktop ruins where Cabrini

  fell: xochitl dandelions bob

  yellow faces by the plains of

  diamonds—green, blue, ice clear

  bottles slammed to gravel

  • • •

  crumbled to gemstones by

  police cars and kicks:

  yei the river flowing

  the wrong way,

  nahui the river

  turning green.

  Macuilli: here now too

  colibrí y libélula

  circle the ponds,

  rattling atls in brindle light:

  small lightning in foundry smoke

  skies: chasing expressway drivers

  laid out in Patagonian rivers

  rushing steel rapids:

  all those morning speeding wings

  calling us

  to love

  this world.

  The Signal-to-Noise Ratio: Chicago Haiku

  Jackson & Harlem

  I will fuck you up

  Come back here motherfucker

  You ’bout to get served

  #

  Ogden & Western

  Oil change and filter—

  $39 Special!

  Coffee and donuts

  #

  Chicago Sun-Times

  Killed wife, girl, in-laws—

  Several hard hammer-blows—

  Insulted manhood

  #

  WLS 890 AM

  • • •

  I’m the decider

  Conservative Compassion

  I’m the uniter

  #

  Grant Park

  Pigeon on the ice

  Picking at yellow vomit

  Of homeless soldier

  #

  South Loop

  Do I transfer here

  To catch the Orange Line?

  I’ll get fired for sure

  #

  Between Austin & Roosevelt

  Paletas frescas!

  Tacos, tortas, menudo!

  Go back home, beaner!

  #

  Biograph

  Lady in Red’s ghost

  Can’t escape alley’s mouth:

  Johhny Dillinger

  #

  South Racine

  Why you stone trippin

  Babygirl I aint pimpin—

  Got your back for reals

  #

  Lake Forest

  Dave Eggers lived here

  And he was a gentleman

  I taught him English

  #

  Airport

  Security check

  Remove your shoes and jackets

  Welcome to O’Hare

  #

  Millennium Park

  Do you know Jesus?

  If you were to die tonight

  Would you go to Heaven?

  #

  Proviso East High School

  • • •

  Hallways full of ghosts

  From Chicago to Detroit—

  No Child Left Behind

  (asshole)

  graylid Chicago

  6 a.m. / caught

  in ruins of

  Route 66,

  hogtied:

  one more

  red

  light,

  Ogden

  Austin.

  steamtailed

  cars. No

  vember

  here already

  damn

  talk radio.

  city drizzle

  icing

  streets

  color of

  bad

  styrofoam

  coffee.

  concrete hot

  dog

  on

  a roof:

  neon script

  ure—“It’s
<
br />   A Meal

  In

  Itself!”

  plastic onions,

  chili, latex

  mustard, mayo—

  not

  mayo, pigeon

  shit.

  rust bridge

  chopped to

  chunks

  by semi

  strikes

  bears Central

  way down—

  blasts of bullhead

  diesel freight

  trains:

  F-18 locos

  lug tankers

  from slots

  behind the candy

  refinery

  capping the hood:

  sugar

  sludge

  glugs

  out the top

  as it rocks (clack

  eting, clack

  eting). boxcars

  rattle

  with Lemonheads,

  Atomic

  Fireballs.

  hiballing (clacketing,

  clacketing)

  from Cicero

  unzipping

  buried prairies

  sugartrain (clack

  eting,

  clack

  eting)

  spooks

  tenement rabbits—tear

  out from

  dead car lots

  faster (clacket

  ing) thru

  cornfields

  frost charred

  where the pigs

  were slaughtered, where

  the legions

  of cows were

  dropped—

  rattlebrown

  now.

  across

  the Big Muddy

  yellow-eyed

  cyclops closes

  on KC—half-frozen

  cattle

  blowing steam like

  smokers

  look up—

  klaxon blast

  and horn—

  clacket

  clacket

  clang

  of cross road

  drop-arms

  chopping off

  traffic / red /

  light / red / light / red

  light

  bells.

  some asshole

  in a flatbed Ford

  jerks it

  round the arm

  gotta beat the clock

  drops it

  into first

  big rush

  to get these flywheels

  to Berwyn:

  these OK City

  pumpjack gears

  to the main yard—

  he

  stomps the clutch

  frog-jumps

  half

  way across the track

  stalls

  on the hump

  with a rodeo

  kick.

  & the loco’s

  coming on.

  & the F-18’s

  big as God’s

  cowboy boot

  about to kick

  a pickup game

  field goal.

  talk

  radio warning

  about Democrats

  Socialists

  Mexicans—

  black angels

  take to the sky.

  watchers

  in stormclouds.

  horn

  howls

  as he works

  the key, dances

  a two-step

  on the pedals, pages

  of yearbooks

  flutter

  through his mind

  Oh Prudence:

  ground shaking

  truck gasps, coughs,

  dies again—

  thermos rolls

  off the dash

  splashes him

  with hot java

  COME ON

  COME ON

  COME ON

  & the klaxon

  sings

  & the clang clang

  & the coffee burns

  & the F-18

  covers

  the sun—

  • • •

  just another morning

  going to work—

  man,

  it ain’t

  my fucking

  day.

  Incident Report

  In front of the public

  Library where all

  These Mexicans were hiding

  Between bookshelves

  Learning el inglés

  So they could move

  On up the Americatree

  Where better fruit

  Dangled

  Didn’t have to be picked

  By their chapped wooden hands

  And where words

  Were a religion—my own

  Father had come home

  From tuna canneries

  Dripping scales and cold

  Blue blood to

  Smoke and hunker

  Over his Webster’s

  Memorizing the dictionary

  Five pages a week: Adirondack,

  Beelzebub, Carnation,

  Diphtheria—

  A tall fat

  Library cop

  Radio-hooked to

  ICE

  Shuffled up the marble

  Stairs: all brown eyes

  Stared—

  Came to a stop

  Behind his belly big

  As a bedroom TV

  In an orchard owner’s

  House—

  Looked into

  The rheumy mug of a

  40 year old white

  Street-dweller

  Come inside to avoid the heat

  To use the toilets

  Maybe

  Even read—

  Stinking

  Worse than any ten

  Tomato-hoe wetback-broken

  Paisanos

  At noon in Santa Ana winds:

  He stood, lipping

  A spit-soaked Camel

  And said

  “What

  I

  Done?”

  OUT

  Said the cop.

  “I ain’t

  Did

  Nothing!”

  OUT.

  Mexicans

  Eased past him, looking

  At the window, the floor,

  Smart enough

  To erase their faces,

  Breaths held

  Like Aztecs braving

  The stench of Cortez

  And his legion unwashed

  For years—

  • • •

  Mexicans scared

  Into grinning

  At the cop shouting

  OUT

  Powerwagons on the way

  By now,

  Ay sí, ya

  Nos chingaron—

  And here they all were

  Illegally farming

  Words—

  “I’m Amorcan and you can’t

  Do nothin’ to me! I got

  Rights!”

  YOU BETTER SHUT IT

  And numbers flew thru his radio

  Into the California air

  Calling back-up—

  Riot in the Adult Non-Fiction

  Reading Room.

  “You”

  The drunk said,

  “You fucken

  Shit!”

  A Mexican

  With gold teeth

  Had his finger

  In a Mark Twain,

  Imagine that, and

  Said, “¿Qué dicen?”

  “You’re a prick,” said the bum

  “Just like my prick father

  Cannelli!”

  Oh, the Mexican said

  An Immigrant—

  Women veered away

  Looking startled

  “I dint do shit

  I got a right

  To use the fucken lieberry just like these

  Beaners right here

  And I got a right to use

&n
bsp; The can like any other

  White man!”

  “Mexicans and me,

  We got the right

  To use any can we want to—this

  Is Amorca for Godsakes.”

  And through the high old windows

  The sky was beautiful,

  It reminded everybody of

  Pátzcuaro—

  They held books of common prayer,

  Books of cartoons, books

  Of massacres of Mayas in Guatemala—

  Memories of holy dreams

  Lined up like macheted coconuts

  In jungle ditches, big black

  Beautiful Mexican sun cooking

  The skin of young girls laid out

  In alleyways with one red blossom

  In each unlined forehead—

  They wondered

  How the same sun comes up

  On sinner and saint,

  On peasant and priest,

  How clouds can ache

  In the blue like that, even

  When there are no words to sing it,

  How life runs on, runs

  Like a stream through cactus forests,

  Life without effort

  Life without end

  Taking every child to the darkest

  Bend in the river and giving

  A shove—

  Life

  As if everyone could learn

  The words

  To save us.

  Canción al final de un día de sombras

  cielo nublado

  tragandose a los pájaros

  encobijando

  al mundo entero

  movimiento

  gris

  grueso y

  silencioso

  suenan guitarras todavía

  en las cantinas

  de el más allá

  ese rumbo

  que jamás será nombrado

  y me pican la mente

  las voces

  y me siguen

  sombras borrachas

  con pasos lentos

  son pacientes

  esos desgraciados

  y vamos

  por calles abandonadas