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Belize
By Paul Cameron Brown
Giving myself permission to write -
points from Ciudad Juarez
as well as the compass where
taboos complete bayonet-sized memories
a tadpole of doubt gleaned from
shallow Canadian upbringing
sojourning in the South.
A stranger came -
his beard the Columbian hillcountry
mustachioed, the voice trailed off
whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles,
the Black Mamba or boomslang before
brief rictus of pain.
I am writing this
with an eye on fortune,
it's not the cantina is dry
just walls above this cot
squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing
between rosary beads
and the day is hot.
Extend a cigarette,
fumble another Spanish syllable
pretend houngans are hombres
Hidalgo just another green wine.
This utterance is mutilating
and paper scrolls are an oath
to take their toll
pockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood.
Buenos dias, sênor,
only don't say
S a s k a t c h e w a n
like light over mountains
it's of little importance, really, won't, change the
cabfare one i o t a.
The sea may cough little stars
or an emerald coffin
sit like a lampshade
somethings go on...
Begging your pardon, ma'am
this train would do well
to leave within the hour
and the ferry from Topolobampo
Out of persistence to form
has never arrived early.
"Piratas ingles" read the mural
now I know
seedy tropical ports
harbour wayfarers like the Marlboro man
adjusting his image,
(inspiration may well be poetic
but the instrument's blunt)
bare feet the colour or lanterns,
white ducks
pressed too much
around lean shanks
and a visage
to trouble Satan
Taking a profit,
Mozart up in smoke
down the tubes
water reverses itself,
runs counterlockwise
impecunious in this
juxtaposition of a hemisphere.
Poor Mexico - far from God &
so near the United States
a snippet of history remembered
though the Gadsen Purchase seems
irrelevant. How a propos
& natty too
the moon is a hummingbird
& painted porcelain flask for you.
Backstreets
a la seduction
this demimonde,
a whole continent as intrigue
do twin fists pounding
on a door
resemble gunfire
especially at dawn or
is that just the mule
so obstinate in you -
the poor creatures
pressed into service,
litter the landscape
bedbugs thrown from cars.
At the Ponce de Leon
adrenalin with white caps
comes up bare
as language
forced into riot,
not a humble metaphor
in sight.
the occasional half-witted vowel
staggering under the onslaught
pirouetted
clamouring about the edge
- no easy familiarity
here with the English language.
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