Mexico ala Bukowski

People go to market in the morning,
buy their chickens, nopalis, tostadas,
the woman with a huge fold of skin
masking half her face…the burn victim,
flesh tight, drawing his fat lips into a
permanent grin. No escape from reality
here…Disneyland’s a gringo horror show.

Mexican music in the air.
like the salsa ever present at comeda.
It’s not elevator muzak …no one’s
going up…not too far down to go.
Hombres in various stages of drunkenness
throughout the day…various degrees
of filth…there, like the music, like the
intestinal parasites omnipresent like
church bells letting you know you’re
not dead yet, but someone’s God
is waiting.

I like it…I like it all…women trussed
up like flowers…machos with pencil
thin moustaches…teenage boys with
the look of “what the fuck?”…girls
carrying their little girls…ancient
madres in skirts with apron… a dog
lying on the sidewalk with a tumor
on his back as big as a melon.