Category Archives: poem about Mexico

Preposterous Vision

“Peyote Dream” Painting by Jesus Lopez Vega

Preposterous Vision

My friend Chuy says
it is peyote leached into the soil
the corn grows from
that gives Mexicans
such a remarkable sense of color.
The bright pigments of imagination
flood his canvasses.
His peyote dreams leak out into the real world
and wed it to create one world.
“Peyote dream” becomes its opposite—
a freight train taking us into the universal truth.
A larger reality.
This stalk of corn, this deer,
this head of amaranth,
all beckon, “Climb aboard.”

So when you bite into a taco
or tamale, when the round taste of corn
meets your tongue, and pleasure flows
in a lumpy river down your throat,
look up at what is standing in the shadows
and see that it is light that creates shadow.
See the many colors that create the black.
Follow where the corn beckons you to go—
into the other world of poetry and paint
and dance and music. Hot jazz with a mariachi beat.

Chew that train that takes you deeper. Hop aboard
the tamale express and you will ride into your
new life. It will be like your old life magnified
and lit by multicolored lights and the songs of merry-go-rounds
and when you bite into your taco, it will taste
like cotton candy and a snow cone
and your whole life afterwards will be a train that takes you nowhere
except back into yourself—a Ferris wheel
spinning you up to your heights and down again, with every turn,
the gears creaking “Que le vaya bien.”
I hope it goes well with you
and that you see the light
within the shadow
and the colors
in the corn.

For Fandango’s prompt: preposterous

The Juice of Human Kindness

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I am making guacamole for the play date I’m having with two other collage artists tomorrow.  I am shocked when I see the time is 11:45 p.m. shortly after I’ve also discovered I’m out of limes.  Lack of sleep and the later hour have made me forget what I know well–that guacamole won’t darken if you bury the pit in it. I can only think that an hour’s work disinfecting and chopping onions, cilantro, garlic, tomatoes and four giant avocados will be for naught unless I locate a limón (key lime–Mexico’s answer to limes) or two. Dozens of bars and restaurants on my street—and little markets—all closed. Except for one restaurant with tables in the square that pops up every evening and disappears at closing time. Luckily, since they have to put away all the chairs and tables each night, they were just locking up.  I asked if I could buy a lime, and the cook took me into the kitchen, which she was just getting ready to lock up, and said they only had a few left but to take what I needed from the grocery bag that contained seven tiny limóns.  I took three and asked how much.  She wouldn’t take money, so I gave her a hug.  I love Mexico.