Flying Mexicana

At the conference, Artemio tries to explain
how he, as a poet, got to this point
in his creative career.

He goes back to his roots,
the Olmec head of his great-grandfather,
a lowly go-fer, no doubt.

And how Artemio groveled his way up
from nothing in the white man’s eyes,
to nothing in his own brown community.

“So it is this art I am obligated to…”
he curses and smiles.
“It’s our humor that brings us tears,” he promises.

Outside, you can wrap the smog in tamales,
eat the corn leaves, down cervezas,
eye the behinds of women.

A slight earthquake is not enough
to shake up Artemio.
He’s due to fly back to clueless America tonight.

To be welcomed by the skyline
of ice-cream cone buildings
cold as Huidobro’s Arctic poems,

cold as the decision-making
of the nation’s fearless leaders,
blind as Borges but with no insight whatsoever,

cold as Pinochet
but with delusional gods and democracy
on their side.