HECHIZOSPELLS                  

                    
                                   May 10, 1974
                                   trío de locos
                                   in juárez bistros,
                                   drinking/listening
                                   to mariachis.

  Fridays Belong to Friends, Sometimes*

  fridays belong to friends, sometimes, 
  when Horacio "Chacho" Minjárez,
  Rafa "Chafa" Aguirre and I 
  can galavant all night 
  from cantina to cantina, 
  jiving with the pimps 
  as they shout:
              " Say, can you spare a messican minute, fellows, 

              and i'll take you to see the girls,"

  and his mouth opens in surprise 
  as one of us shouts back jivingly,

              "No, ese, we want to see the boys, 

              damn the girls,"

  and we walk/saunter laughingly 
  up different streets, 
  stopping
  with don cojón-chon,
  buy little french rolls,
      sliced in half and stuffed
      with avocado, mexican cheese, 
      jalapeños and a dash of salt, 
  and we continue 
  in our camaraderie 
  walking up juárez avenue 
  to carlos or the Manhattan or the san luis 
  to hear mariachis and shout, 
  all the time eating tortas,
  winking at the women, 
  alluding to ourselves
  as being non-tourists
  in this city on the border.

  we enter the Manhattan,
  and mariachis serenade us, 
  and the tourist trade is thick, 
  aguirre squirms and says 
  let's go to another place 
  as young horacio bolts about, 
  splashing his tequila doble on his shirt, 
  and we walk down and cross the tracks, 
  get in the car and drive 
  across that stretch
  of supertourist traps.

  swarming streets
  filled with hungers of amérika, 
  seekers of sexual bliss, 
  we laugh, 
  for we just came to drink 
  and shout and pay mariachis 
  for their art . . . 
  we enter the san francisco bar, 
  expecting music to blare out, 
  we drink and wait for them, 
  and then realize 
  that may 10th 
  is always
  Mexican Mother's Day,
  and good mariachis 
  make more money 
       serenading
  home to home
  than in bars,
  and these mariachis are the best, 
  so they'll play
  out on the streets,
  and we mope and start to talk.

  Chacho is a youth who 
  wants to write
  and film
  and live
  a legendary life
  while creating sketches
  of reality
  on the canvas of our souls. 
  he is a poet,
          young and strong, 
  and full of vision, 
  and he reminds me 
  of garcía lorca and whitman
  and rimbaud
  and baudelaire
  and lalo
  and salinas
  and more especially of himself,
  and his quick mind
  pounces on every word;
  all night long rafa and i revel 
  in the magic 
  of the word worlds Chacho gives us,
  he wants to go to yale 
  to whip it,
  and he will,
  and rafa is moved to tears 
  by Chacho's words, 
  and i feel strong/good
  in meeting such a delicate/virile/affirmative mind/soul 

  as this young bato
  who speaks of years at Jefferson high
  and the projects and the fact that he and his mother
  survive somehow on about $1000, yes one thousand dollars, a year,
  yet, he believes in himself, in raza, in the struggle, 
  and
  we sense him puffing out his chest, 
  he's gonna tell us something, 
  aguirre in his forty years of life 
  has learned patience and he listens,

  and i, in 33, have learned 
  how to bob/weave/and jive, 
  so i jive,
  and we three laugh, 
  rap on
  'til we tire
  of the blandness 
  of music-less bars, 
  and walk out into the street 
  and as we rave and jive and galavant 
  we hear the far off strains 
  of inebriated music-makers, 
  over there
  in that club on the corner, 
  yes, tontos, there, 
  sí, at the forum, 
  we enter, sit, order 
  bohemias for rafa and me, 
  a tequila doble for horacio,
  he's beginning to get high,
                     "I really don't drink, I, ah er ..."
  we let it go at that and smile, 
  mariachis come on over, 
  toquen, we say, something
  for our friend Chacho here 
  it's mother's day, and for his age 
  he's a hell of a mothuh, he is, 
  so it's his day, 
  now play "Las Mañanitas," 
  or something to that effect, 
  we laugh and jive, 
  and $23 later 
  we walk out of that joint, 
  drive over to max-fim's 
  and look at ballroom waltzers, 
  and drink a round or two 
  and drive back to el paso . . .

* also appeared in SELECTED POEMS and LOVES OF RICARDO