Song to Tijuana

Another cold winter night spent crossing the border.
The cold steel of the car
juts and jolts
over broken by-ways
and
battered boulevards.
Down the main boulevard,
careful for children
that run in the black of night,
under the dim, yellow street light.
Round and round
the glorious glorietas
where yesterdays failed leaders
stand tall and proud
in rock and stone,
for all to see
on the merry-go-rounds
of carbon and steel.
And when you look at the beat up jalopies,
that surround and consume
in worn out colors,
the drivers
are
just
as
haggard
as the cars.
And that which burns brightest
are the advertisements;
the Coca-Cola billboards,
brilliant
dazzling
lights
in neon,
in LCD.
Electricity glows and flows first to these.
Stop signs are yield signs
as you swerve around
those too eager to
wait their turn.
And the car cracks and creaks over potholes
that come out of nowhere and force you to drive
zig-zag up dark hills,
where strangers walk
wide-eyed and bushy tailed
on dirt paths littered with
faded papers
and
green glass.
Past all the countless taco vendors,
where steam rises out of
rusted, oiled grills,
and the smell,
it permeates through the glass
and infects your nostrils
and instantaneously makes your mouth water.
And we drive to Libertad,
where an old woman – la guera – and her husband
makes tacos
out of their front yard patio,
covered by
faded,
stained
tarps
to keep out the cold
on freezing winter
nights.
And they always watch TV
silently,
obediently,
as they grill the food,
and she hands it to me
with hands covered
in masa and maiz,
and smiles as we say
"gracias."
We sip on rice water
that's sweet with cinnamon,
and goes so well with the spice of the salsa.
After,
we pay their son,
who's in charge of the money,
and wears a sweatshirt from our high school,
and is just a few years younger than we.
Then we leave Libertad's broken streets
(how funny that the neighborhood named Liberty is one of the saddest of all)
and make our way through
the congested arteries
in the city of faded colors.
On our way,
a column of police,
machine gun packin',
Kevlar packin',
packin' worried faces,
zoom by
lights flashin',
sirens ringin',
engines screamin',
off to fight a war
of America's addiction.
And sure enough,
moments later,
there's a burst of bullets blaring from blazing barrels.
And the eruptions continue
a moment or so longer
and then there is silence.
Absolute silence.
And then the city awakens,
and continues its erratic breathing,
as we cut off a bus caked in mud,
an old hammie-down school bus
converted for proles, peons, for la plebe.
Its so dirty you can't see through the windows.
And finally we make it to beautiful Chapultepec,
where a girl I know resides at the foot of the hill.
It's a place where the elite sleep peacefully
In mansions made for madmen,
built on the hilltop,
and a church a lies sanctioned
specifically for lawyers,
for judges,
for politicians,
­for drug dealers,
who kneel and pray all under one roof.
Sinners and saints together at the table of
God,
to commune with the host,
to consume holy flesh and holy blood.
And they all pray for the same thing:
more;
more money,
more drugs,
more help,
more peace,
more blood.
And so it is there I am dropped off,
outside her apartment,
a residence of refuge,
an island in a sea,
a place where government, society has
no reach, no touch, no affect,
and I walk through the steel gate,
climb up the stairs,
and pass the bicycles for children
who don't know of streets without holes.
I knock on the door,
the steel rattles and rings,
with every tap of my knuckle
and I wait for a moment before her voice sings,
"Quien?"
I say it's me,
the door opens,
and it's a hug with a slight kiss on the cheek.
I come in,
we sit, talking for a while, sipping
coffee from Veracruz.
As her spoken words are sung from soft lips,
note the paintings hanging triumphantly
from nails on the wall.
Mind manifestations masterfully made
in swirls of paint,
come borne on canvas,
once blank,
once nothing
like the universe.
And when the coffee's done,
it's to the artists bed,
where we lie and continue conversation.
Then there's silence
as we listen to the static sizzle sound
from the phonograph's horn,
listening to spontaneous, spastic serenades
provided by the late Charles Mingus,
Tijuana Moods to be exact,
and we listen to the music man's fingers
strum across an amalgam of chords,
as castanets slap, clap in the back,
and the piano man's cascade of keys sing,
as the cymbals ring ring ring,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically,
all the while her head rests on my chest,
subtle, sweet smile,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically,
as our fingers dance,
they waltz in swirls of air,
jazz jiving with one another,
beautifully,
ecstatically,
absolutely beatifically.
Until finally the sheets swallow us
in black blanket sleep,
and we dive into unconsciousness,
souls freed and
sink
sink
sink
through the floorboards,
through the cement foundations,
into magical Mexican mud and dirt,
until we spring up in an ephemeral dreamland,
a supreme universe of absolute truth,
perpetual beauty,
love everlasting,
but in a clap is over,
and the rapturous reality is drawn
like curtains,
exposing the mad world dubbed real.
The needle raises and it's a glance of the watch,
and sadly its time to go,
untangle limps and lips,<>
and promise another visit and one last kiss.
Its out the door,
where the city screams, howls.
Down the stairs,
the corridor,
out the gate,
a glance back,
and back into the car,
back north
to the seemingly infinite line and file of cattle
that is the border line.
The feel is always ominous,
as you wait to cross,
and white men with boots and dogs
look into yours eyes.
Supreme suspicion,
guilty until proven innocent.
All feel like they've committed crimes for crossing.
Nervous guilt always seizes as the inspector
inspects the documents and sends a volley of questions
knowing that for the brief moment your with them,
they can grant passing or hell.
Theirs is a constant power trip.
And finally we're cleared,
and we're back in America,
instantly filled with the monotonous, synthetic, chemical feel of living
only the Land of the Free can guarantee.
A land where kicks are garnered through TV shows,
and people grow fat on milk and honey,
or die due to a lack of.
The most powerful nation in the world.
Ever.
And so it's a drive back through the mechanized streets
that run robotic like clock work,
back through the boring suburbs,
where police patrol pompously and loom around corners.
Finally I'm dropped off at home,
bid farewell from the outside the car, shake hands,
let's do it again next week
and then I walk in the house and go out the back,
grab the ladder and climb up to the roof
where I can see the dark hills of Tijuana span
like a beautiful black blanket
faraway, covered in shinning gems and precious gold,
her radiant lights pulsating, vibrating, singing
to me like sweet jazz playing on velvet vinyl.