BORDER CHANT FOR THE WAYWARD
BORDER CHANT FOR THE WAYWARD
by Matthew Phillips
Passport photos and foil-flecked pinwheels, hot exhaust splashing breath
against taco vendors and a German Shepard (well-trained, I imagine)—three
spins of the clock, a half-full bottle of gold tequila and a last ditch effort
to score a gram of Mexican pot | I went to Rosarito Beach on a Friday plastered
with sea breeze, met a painter called Jaime in the tourist sector: He’s a tribal
leader in a last band of renegade artists—you spin worlds with a paintbrush,
drip-dry in beach sands | I studied a lone Mexican cop with my good eye,
prayed for reprieve from weekday demands and routine (back home), bought
weathered spruce firewood from a mango vendor near Valle de Guadalupe
and listened to sea lions on a rocky shoreline while, above and high and bright,
a full moon rose and fell in pendulum pattern | At the border, an American
with red cheeks and an underbite told me I’d need an inspection, pinned
my blue passport to my insect-splattered windshield | Who gave man authority
to draw lines on natural things, to pin a beating heart to a map?
Mathew poetically and physically enhances the view at a Mexican stop over from a provocative vocal language all his
own letting us draw our own apotheosis from his abyss and
analysis of geography and history at his tourism and celebratory voyeurism.
Thanks for reading my poem!