|Posted by arley sanchez on July 8, 2011 at 12:15 AM|
I ramble beat and anxious,
skitter like a leaf over lava rock,
a sweet city woman sings on the radio
and promises she'll wait for me.
So long ago cruising Mexico with Pablo;
he asks me for one more day
and I nod okay,
powerless to say no to Christmas tree eyes.
The radio blares Pablo Cruise
but Pablo spins the dial.
Real rock has no horns, like Chicago, he winks,
but Pablo Cruise,
he says, can come along for the ride.
My thoughts are rambunctious,
like children climbing a haystack.
Ghosts rarely tell their tales,
they are shades fading on the Earth.
I am made stronger by loss,
and what I lost is later found
by someone else
who will be made stronger by loss.
Sweet City Woman's empty promises
return me to Mexico
so long ago when we became camarades,
our friendship cemented on a Mexican weekend,
riding Metallic Blue with a name like corn whiskey
and a sound like thunder and white lightning.
Pablo rides shotgun, challenging Chevys,
chiding Cudas, harassing Hemis,
the squeal of molten rubber
and the roar of a 351 Cleveland
vanquishes Mexican Road Warriors
and Pablo beams, his golden locks whip
in the wind como el Thor.
Y las chulitas en Juarez bunched
on dangerous street corners,
screeching parakeets with flame blue eyes
and skinny brown legs,
raised skirts and silky wet tongues,
Oye, muchachos, Quieren dulce?
No es caro, very cheap.”
The plaza clatters in a chaotic din
as I am buscando el Pablo.
He wheels around a corner
like a windblown tumbleweed.
He can see I'm annoyed and possessive
of the only real friend I ever had.
His speed freak eyes accelerate
and he says with a wink,
“I never said I was Pablo Cruise.”
Weary like a promise broken too often,
my sweet city woman still waits.
Time splashes from a shattered
hour glass at my feet,
spilling blood and dreams.
Death walks like a shadow,
yet we pretend it's a lie.
The old can't see the precipice;
the blind can't hear the storm,
the unwell never knowing how to solve the puzzle.
I was shaken awake this morning
to pay my respects.
I find you lying on a brass bed of red,
your heart bleeding from a needle full of black tar.
A cop with black mirrored eyes tosses you
in the back of an ambulance
like so many broken dishes.
Later your cold blue hands clench a rosary
and on your head a shiny new baseball cap
sticks straight up like a head stone.
The body waits, the spirit kneels, afraid to go,
like a victim whose home
has been carried away by the storm.
Rosary beads chant and raging voices
dance inside my head.
A smile curls like incense
as I remember the day
you learned I loved your sister.
You looked in our tent and said,
“What the hell are you doing?”
and your sister replied,
“What the hell does it look like?”
and she slapped you so hard
your long golden locks fluttered
in the wind like a young man's flag.
When your locks fell away
like the leaves in the fall,
and your eyes became his tomb.
A clock ticks somewhere on Sundays
as I search for Pablo Cruise.
We swallowed miles and beer,
watched the full moon fling stars
off its hip like swing kids,
living for today and wishing for tomorrow
like children on Christmas Eve,
like lovers mourn for lost chances.
At the light a cop glares
and I growl like a dog at my own reflection.
In the rear view mirror, I imagine I see you
but it's only a tumbleweed.
Cruising Sundays solo, searching for solace,
probing for penance,
como un buscador soltero, a seeker alone.
I found a weathered snapshot of you today,
your face was haloed in gold,
and I hear myself say,
“You never said you'd be gone on Sundays,”
and then your reply,
“I never said I was Pablo Cruise.”