Alven L. Robinson

Old Mexico - Poem by Alven L. Robinson

Whistling down the coast of gold,
Volkswagen bound for Mexico,
notebooks left behind,
lecturers far out of mind,
Western Civ. half dead,
mothers sent to bed - -
we headed for the Ocean Blue
Mazatlan and Guaymas too,
Rocky Point perhaps,
to see the cactus flats,
before the tidal change
of tequila gone deranged.

We sought the pearl sands
with tepid beers in hand,
perhaps some local reefer too,
or Purple Haze to help the view;
just the way of kids at play,
college hours gone astray,
vacation time at last,
a kombi-van, a tank of gas,
bright futures still a thing to pass.

We stopped in Pepe's on the beach,
one dollar fifty each per day, daddy
long leg spiders by the beds,
a trailer broken down,
its wheels off the ground,
with room for five or more
and paralytics on the floor;
and that was just before
we hit the bars - - both kinds, I dare to say - -

There's a way in Mexico,
"Manana" says it all - -
take the day the simple way,
if you see corruption, look away;
if you care at all, forget the call,
there's no 911 to stop free fall;
the Federalis could care less,
they've got their hands in wrinkled vests - -
or extended for a bribe - -
mustaches greased with vacant pride;
a speeding ticket takes a $20 bill,
well worth the little thrill;
but if the road is empty,
you'd best be on your best - -
the Hermosillo jail
looks like a pigpen in distress.
And that's the way it happened,
four wise mouths displayed,
give the police some lip
and they haul you all away;
and then the fun begins,
at least for them that day - -
gringos always have the cash,
and Manuel enjoys the wicked laughs;
its all a game to play - -
give ‘em bread to go away - -
no one gets hurt, and so it goes,
the trickle flows to barrios
from the campuses of green and gold.

Back on the beach, the sands are clean,
the sunsets more a tropic dream,
and the girls, that's another scene;
one stroll along the Malecon,
grade-point traumas bid so-long,
to Senorita eyes of song,
is maybe how it's meant to be - -
a galaxy from old hometown,
Poncho hasn't put the concrete down
from sea to shining sea;
there's still some village life
and fishing nets to weave.

Of course they've got their whores
and liquor stores,
the roads are a little dusty
and the cars a little rusty,
but the boredom hasn't set the tone - -
the poverty to be alone
hasn't settled in quite yet,
or grafted to the TV set;
modernity is still a thing to flee,
but college eyes can fail to see
the simplest of subtleties,
because the beers are cold, the T-shirts wet and hot,
and there's no growing old
before the mescal shot - -
complete with the little worm - -
to make your stomach churn and churn,
before the whirling hours
and toilet showers
give the tacos sweet return.

The music that's another phase,
the Mexicans have a somber way,
they play guitars and horns all day;
Bribesca has that special sound - -
a happiness yet sadness bound,
with wide sombreros all around,
a welcome to amigos bold,
Casa Noble to take hold,
not to mention Acapulco Gold - -
and the bells of little churches
where the Blessed Virgin
searches for your soul - -
all seem to blend
like long lost friends,
of smoke and dreams
and color schemes,
hallucinations on the screen,
that take you to the skies
of black eyed ladies in disguise,
who have that certain look,
experience to book,
for a half an hour - -
sweet moonlight in the tower - -
escorted gently up the stairs
to places meant for backslap dares,
short moments all too quickly gone,
a fleeting chance to play Don Juan,
before the cheers and refilled beers
of Dos Equis and Corona,
and the swift return,
depravity well learned,
to that swaggering persona - -
the legs a little weak,
the crabs still yet to creep;
and the co-eds never know,
you've just seen the Mexico outside the history books
of Alamos and Aztec gold,
and ruins plundered of their souls.

Back at the bar the smoke was thick,
Corrido Rockers kickin' in a line;
Butterfield was playin' the blues,
Clapton had his spoonful too,
Janis with her Benz was lookin' fine.
Bob's fingers were still in a knot,
Mick's sister had her morphine shot,
Jimi could still kiss the sky,
Country Joe was fishin' fly,
and can't forget the backdoor man - -
crystal ship and spike in hand - -
and then the Mariachi band
would step into the scene,
greeted by the screams and shrieks,
long haired freaks and frat rat geeks,
sorority girls unfurled,
cut-offs ready to be twirled,
Bacardi flowing ‘cross the floor,
angels swinging through the doors - -
Margarita pitchers pouring until dawn.

And then along the pearl shores
the stars were born again once more,
moonlight flowed across the waves,
Lucy watched the diamonds play;
the Baja air of velvet pure
offered up its potion cure - -
broken hearts to take a chance,
romance through a distilled trance,
eyes alight before the slide,
arms to hold the dancing tide - -
and in the distant space and time
Johnny C. still walked the line.

So we headed slowly back,
bare feet on the sands to track,
to briefly hit the waiting sack
for an hour or two of zzzzzzs,
before the fragrant morning breeze
took Mamacita from our dreams
and greeted us with refried beans, and heads to measure in extremes,
as we crawled into another day,
sophmore vagrants on display,
Tecate there to wash away
the yawning dogs of pale blue,
suburbia still calling through
the pickup trucks and pothole brew,
from chandeliers of Malibu - -
parents fearing stories true,
of Easter Sundays in the sun,
Kahlua creams for everyone,
and stripper bars to sleaze the slack
before the twitching hours of smack,
their little darlings in the hands
of dealers in bandito bands - -
South of the border of renown
somewhere beyond Nogales town,
Mom at home still worried sick
her Nembutal a done prescript,
Dad's affair a business trip,
while Susie reached beyond her fate,
the last temptation's combo plate - -
a Delta Gamma song too late - -
a popper twist of amyl-nitrite
to usher in the balmy night,
and spin the wheels of vertigo
along the winding playa road,
San Blas adventures to unfold,
into fiesta tales told
from rocking chairs at nursing homes,
along with faded pictures shown,
some forty years into her soul - -
a journey down to Mexico.

Topic(s) of this poem: fun

Poet's Notes about The Poem

College days and holidays in Mexico, in the sixties. Good times and memories.

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, July 20, 2014

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