On the Bus from Mexico City, Yung Bans Raps Dead Faces Dollar $’s All I See, Cash Rules Every F*cking Thing Around Me and the American Part

of me is vibing because no one cares, because everyone


is too busy being baptized


from a long day’s work. And after Mexico, I can’t go back


to what I thought I knew           about appetite, about

 

hustle beneath any sun.            There is no gold here and sometimes

there are no                       teeth. They say
 

chilangos can’t be

trusted but I am surrounded

by the electric rush of pulque            in my mouth.

 

One time, I was ready

to be stripped. I was lost                                       in a labyrinth of broken glass

   and stray dogs, and a group of chakas were drinking in the middle

of my chest. In my mind, I imagined it: giving them
my backpack, my wife’s expensive camera, clearly                                  out of bounds

from where we were told                                  to stay. I was caught

slipping, was ready
to pay the price of my privileged sneakers. I walked up

 

to ask for directions, told them

I was lost but glad to see them. They looked

 

at me then pointed towards what seemed

a dead end. But as it turned out it wasn’t

an ending as much as it was

a beginning.

Danza de los Huichilobos

Tonight I didn’t find my animal. I starved
my mouth until I was left in wild. Tonight
my moon is unsurfaced and rotating
off-axis. I admit: there is privilege in moving.
The continents spreading
across the surface of my expansion, the tectonics
of my arms and legs as they crash
into the space around me—a dark room, gin,
this DJ spinning oldies. I can’t dance. Can’t bend
the angles of my desires until they spill their secrets.
My wolf is still out there, on 19th & Broadway,
a desperate skeleton of itself. Maybe it’s lost. Maybe
it’s dangling off the shadows of a space dream.
Maybe it’s waiting in the parking lot
next to the armored elephant mural. When I left California,
everything felt like a river in my brown hands. It felt like the rush
of everything I’d barely spoken. I called it something like a dancing
hunger. Have you ever fed the bones
of your neglect? Torn the flesh off your comforts
to feed your wonders? Questions are formed from the blood of my being
and perfect answers aren’t important. I’ve moved across territories, across imaginary
limits I’ve boxed around myself, carrying my hands
like music in a muted conversation. I imagine
it’s like aiming a rifle, its hugging weight taking
shape in front of me before taking something more.

Alan Chazaro is a half armadillo half chameleon Mexican American poet. His books, This Is Not a Frank Ocean Cover Album (2019), and Piñata Theory (2020), are available from Black Lawrence Press, and contain scriptures from an in-between world.

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