Baja (War, Days 56 thru 67)

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Baja (or war days 56 thru 67)

 

For me, sitting in planes always seems like small, cramped spaces,

slightly bigger than coffins,

Ready to fall at the slightest pretext.

it’s one of the top ten sure ways to die 100%,

If the wing does fall off or the engines stop,

Like I imagine it will.

Make no mistake, it’ll be over soon, I tell

Myself,

If those things did happen,

I still believe

It will turn out all right.

After all, what were all the flying dreams about when I was a child.

Saving myself in occasions like this.

Always escaping the inevitable, horrific fate.

Three hours of these kind of thoughts until

Touchdown in San Jose del Cabo.

Where the walk through the airport is a bustling carnival of insurance, tortilla sales whistles,

Kids, and Indian mothers begging, “Can you spare a dime” in espanol,

the same plea in all the languages the world over.

A million cabbies more than eager to take you to town.

We are here. Safely ensconced in town,

Fish tacos already down,

Margaritas up.

And if I hear one more jimmy buffet song

By the pool,

I swear I’ll go to Portugal next time,

Where the fado will

 

 

Sunlight highlights her breasts,

Exposed, open to the growing morning light,

She, sleepy to the notion of my smiley thoughts,

Right through her gentle heart,

The piercing shrill of butcher birds

Alighting in the orange fuchsia like flowered topachine tree.

A lonely dove next to it,

It’s blossoms laying the sidewalk like soft orange colored snow. 

Yellow jackets find some moisture near the outdoor shower head.

 

By the thousands, jelly fish have stranded themselves on the beach,

A musty odor pervades the air as they spend their last moments drying out in the sun.

 

On a dive, twenty feet below

A hundred barracuda move in unison,

Effortlessly across the sandy bottom,

Scatter like gazelle when I turn my masked lion face

toward them.

Mantas, like monstrous bats in slow motion

Glide through flickering shafts of light

To the underworld I now occupy,

Their course less angled, more smoothly than ducks and geese of the air,

In their watery dark solemnity.

Rising back up a hundred feet through Devil’s Throat,

A two-thousand-foot gateway into dark so thick,

Muscle bound with dark and gray shadows,

Light from above barely penetrates,

Eleven days of just her and me,

Under a mean Cabo Pulmo sun and clear water reef.

 

I missed days 56 through 67 bombings.

Before we left, day 56, Milosevic was ready for deal and Clinton was happy we (usa) weren’t killing too many innocent people, and it was Milosevic’s fault anyway if we did.

When I got back day 67, Milosevic is ready to deal and Clinton is happy we, (usa), weren’t killing too many innocent people, and it was Milosevic’s fault if we did anyway.

I had a dream on my first night back

I was never in mexico at all.

I am still frozen forever with my countrymen in a still life of ambiguity.

History will tell me it won’t be the last time.

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