The four directions of my border blues

I miss
Tacuache,
Homer,
Johnson,
Crow
the four directions
of my blues
the four musics
of my valley
the guitarist
the drummer
the friend
geniuses all
beheaded by whites
loved by Mexicans
Elvira and her sister, too
The tula fog

the cries
for the mother
The music was our music
we knew we would never see each other again
never gave up the blues
never surrendered to the night of our long separation

Tacuache bellowing,
hair down to his hips,
I want pussah, pussah
Homer roaring in laughter
I am in the back seat remembering us all
Where’s Cinthia?
She was my outcast, my future woman
I would love and love always
eternity had her names, ours
Johnson was a madman

with a Gibson strapped across his shoulder
Crow the music organism
Tacuache spirit armed with spirit to pound away our fears
Homer the friend we would never give up
Then we left each other

alone
We left each other
and ever since

music is
incomplete
unfinished tenderness…

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