The Ensenada Poems*

The Ensenada Poems

I.
I came here alone, I have nothing gave nothing
now the cat and the traffic bother me
the cat because he threw up trying to eat a cockroach
and the traffic because its not loud enough
I’ve been trying to write poems for an hour
all I got was thirsty and the cat wandering around here
in the darkness getting into things
now the tire crunching gravel
now the click of the final latch
now the worm speed tattoo of bad thoughts
reminds me how long it’s been
how hard the road is, how evil patience
and her death knell can be. Some say soon
I’ll be far away I’ll be able to process everything
that’s gone on everything that’s yet to happen
I’m falling here. I’m losing it
here.

II.
The other day I saw this guy after he got knocked out
there was a large meaty gash there was blood
a lot of urgency and crying, a lot of pain
I guess it was as it was supposed to be,
it was on the patio of the psychiatric ward
and those people can’t control their impulses
they’ve a hard time with aggression and containing
that primal thing with which we were born.
It was disturbing that scene, we had to put him
on a gurney and wheel him outside to the waiting ambulance
and all the administrative concern and policy changes
couldn’t really alleviate the discomfort, the agony
the simple pangs of horror everyone wasn’t feeling
I drove home that night full of fear
not for the guy who’s head got split open
and not for the guy who found it necessary to do the splitting
but for everyone else in between standing around
acting like they knew what to do
with such a scene.

III.
I tried to write last night but the words wouldn’t come
just sleep wanted me, just sleep and dreams
which I do not remember
now the pull and lure of the city, de mi barrio
is here now, at the hazy 7 am. Baja sunrise
I’m flanked by strange animals that love me
a peace that eludes me and the trappings of
everything that I feel that might somehow keep me sick—
this writing machine, the cup of coffee, the malignant
thoughts pouring out here now and with such anger
you can almost taste it. The grumbling stomach
some virus eating away at me
even the famous and the super rich try to stave off death
to no avail, we all lose, we all meet the great silence
without grace.

IV.
Sometimes I remember my brother, sometimes I see him
he’s on his bike, he’s working, he’s still playing guitar
he still loves me. Sometimes I think he’s with me,
my mother says the same. It’s music that brings him to me
it’s the sight of some lone biker, some wave, some gust of welcome wind
it’s always the things I never thought of or took for granted
it’s usually comforting, sometimes stinging, often awakening.
guilt is the monster under my bed now, haunting what’s left
shame is the sum of unsaid words and the silence of his love
brings me to this place and to his empty room
the consecrated water
of so many tears
ago and
now.

–Baja California, October 2003

*Previously published work in hard copy of “The Chiron Review,” (2011)