Five Views of Guanajuato: A Mythology

Five of us pack like small ass fish in Ricky’s
rattletrap work van, barrel up that skinny pass,
battling past neon seduction where we sucked
vodka like thin mountain air our first night.
Fishtailing by the spiritual motel where I peeled

the onion layers of love with that Houston chick.
Flying over Difficult Creek, flyspeck raindrops
swarming the cracked windshield, a billion
invisible stars herding animals behind the storm.
We are the long-haired sons of flat-landers,

collars blue as the crawling alpine shadows,
bleeding hearts sick of the ripening corn
and Friday drugstore loiter on our fruited plain.
A mile from camp, up where the road narrows
and center lines crawl into asphalt beds,

a curious light washes the rock face above.
We park along that low stone wall constructed
by 1940s men and out we stumble, a bag
of boys, drunken laughter tumbling down.
Below us, a yellow Karmann Ghia, broken

back against a rushing creek wall, wheels still
turning, doors flayed open like willing arms
waiting for a fiery embrace. One angelic eye
still searching, reaching up like a delicate hand
pulling us all roughly down on top of her.

Small Gardens

This landscape is a prayer
of dead tractors, composted
dreams, and the wingless wives
of ageless right-winged
Christian farmers who spend
Tuesday breakfasts
at The Village Cafe
tending the small gardens
of their neighbor’s lives.