poem: Expedience be damned

scenes from a camioneta

A man with no legs

     walks down the street on his leathery palms

deftly avoiding mango husks

         cigarette butts, frito bags-

his satchel firmly grasped under one arm;

   he weaves, in and out, in and out,

        coming face to face with a dog, he laughs,

and stops for a rest.

 

In and out she weaves, almost magically

       her daily life bundled like children's bright secrets,

 atop her head,

       her bulk managing a way

          down narrow aisles that smell

of what happens to beans after they are consumed.

 

A child stares openly

     at my skin, pale, in a land of sameness

                  I may as well be a clumsy fish walking

   in the land of  graceful birds.

 

I'm not buying what they're selling-

        watches, pens, tamales, sandwiches de pollo-

unless it's those little crunchy toasted peanut things

    melting heavenly into burnt sugary sesame goo-

                it's like a real life infomercial

the channel changing at every stop;

     things they never thought they needed until now.

 

Here is the crazy man in Zone 3-

      he preaches your demise,

           words flung first in your face,

from his long coat and bare feet-

          later, to ensure you got his message,

come the real stones, kept in his pockets

            for special occasions...

                       like you.

In rare moments of lucidity; I think

    he just realizes

         right then, that the world is filled with people

  who don't particularly want his message,

       and it just plain pisses him off.

 

So we jump and bump

        down narrow cobbled streets painted-

blue and green and pink and purple and yellow,

   red and fuschia-

     not a speck of vegetation,

         black death pouring from tailpipes

and the man selling newspapers

      on the dividing line between traffic

                is wearing a dust mask.

 

And the noise, noise, noise!

Engines howling, brakes screeching-

          horns blaring

when someone stops his car

     in the middle of the street

            to run inside and say hi to mom-

except moms everywhere are the same,

       and she's invited him to stay for lunch;

leaving his car, and the angry traffic

      sweltering in the midday sun-

 

and competing with howls and clucks and squalls,

       also hawkers with their wares;

firecrackers, rumba, and shouts-

          sirens when something goes really wrong.

Mostly, though, a weaving dance;

    women with their bundles,

             children with their striped pelotas,

        sellers of every size and stripe,

including vendors of faith,

              weaving in and out, in and out:

 

of buildings, streets, cobbled paths, bridges;

     entryways and open space

           cars and motos and buses and vans;

pedestrians,

  all  vying and fighting for the same damned space,

          and somehow it all works.

Even for the man with no legs,

      who walks on his hands,

           and decides to sit down

   right smack

in the glorious middle of it all.

    To the devil with expedience.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

hard to describe to someone who hasn't been there. If this seems like a dream sequence... well it should

this is a rough draft and will be edited upon further reflection of just what it is I am tryigng to say

Reviews

[Through the Gateway]

I don't know why you say it's hard to describe. I think you described it exceptionally well. I could see the man with no legs laughing at the dog. I could see the vivid colors. I could feel the sun, smell the exhaust. I could feel the eyes on your skin as you walked through the ocean of people.

This feels to me less a social commentary and more a "Day in the Life" piece. One must often be able to see the days before we can even begin to understand the ramifications of anything in a society.

I know this is a work in progress, but it is very good so far.

[Larry Dyson]

I've only been inside Mexico...but the markets and streets are very similar to your description....I do feel as If i've been there via your prosaic description...ty

[lostboy]

everywhere you go people are people.