Hard to stop thinking about going to Mexico this Christmas. So I wrote a poetic tribute to our upcoming trip. I'm not sure how it is a tribute. It's kind of a leftover from our last visit. I'm not sure what it means, but I'm feeling it.
White dude in Mexico trading
his skin for sun, serving limes
to tourists wondering why
he’s turning brown, inside
out, living in cutoffs
forgetting Canada, damn
Canada and piss jobs,
ex-wives, no tequila, not even jellyfish.
If I remember correctly his
name was David, spoken softly
like palm fronds. He offered
to sell pretty much everything:
horses, ATVs, kayaks, parasailing
and of course, the banana ride.
In the end, we bought a shrimp
plate and sat rigidly among empty
tables—it was Wednesday.
We told him we loved
this place, this quiet beach
where locals dine Sundays
separated by hundreds of
swells from the hotel zone
and their jobs scrubbing,
starching, driving, haggling,
begging. So he showed us a room
in a gated yard with a nasty
dog, a mango tree, and lots
of rebar. His green eyes never
left my wife’s neck, and I felt
somewhat flattered I admit,
but certainly a little scared
of this white dude in Mexico.
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3 comments:
I noticed you posted this at 1:30am. Do you ever sleep? I suppose you needed to unwind after your crazy boys night out at the big Carl's Junior! At any rate, I like you poem. It makes me want to move to Mexico...right now.
Because I never re-sent my thoughts on the last poems. . .
I like the framing, the repetition of "white dude in Mexico," and I love the phrase "wondering why / he's turning brown, inside / out." That line break after inside is perfect.
The one thing that seemed out of place was "If I remember correctly". It seems too formal in this poem, even though it does signal a slight shift in tones. It takes me out of the narrative (Lance would be so proud of you). I think you can get across the same idea without being so. . . I don't know what the word is.
Excellent. Brilliant. Well done. Submit. (And forgive for workshopping. Couldn't stop myself.)
I like eg's workshopping. She's much more specific than I am.
Was he really looking at my neck? Hmmm...of course I'm thinking about...ME! ;-) (let's talk about...ME!)
I remember this, but one of the things I remember most was the way that nasty apartment SMELLED--like mothballs, wet paint, and bleach...only not so clean smelling. If it wasn't for the smell I think we would've gone back.
I like the image of leaving the golden zone (the mexians scrubbing...etc.) for the quiet local beach. I think this could be a whole 'nother poem. Nother.
I think for me it brings up conflicting feelings of guilt and sincere delight about being a tourist/supporting tourism in Mexico, and also loving Mexico for all its beauty (turning a blind eye to the ugliness that it can also be).
My grandfather was a classic capitalist. When accused of guiltily being filthy rich and owning two identical Mercedes (his and my gma's), his reply was, "think of all the jobs created, all the people employed from my purchasing a Mercedes." Then he'd go into detail about the car manufacturing plant, the marketing department, the car dealership, etc. I know what his feelings about tourism would most likely be, though not to say that he would turn a blind eye to the ugly side of it too.
Anyway, I think that could be a whole-nuther poem.
I love it when you write.
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