Sounds of Fleas

On Sunday, November 14, Michelle, Heather, Floydd, and my daughter Allyson and I met at a giant statue of a bull. The first thing my daughter said: "Momma, why is there a blue spot under the bull." The blue spot in question was the bull's balls. That about describes our experience at Big Daddy's Market--a direct view of the underbelly of Las Cruces' capitalism. Focusing on the sounds and other sensory details, we each gathered raw material in little notebooks. Floydd made locals nervous with his "FBI" notebook, and Allyson's Bat-girl mask drew more than a few admiring comments. Somehow, I'm not sure we mastered the "blend in" aspect...but we did find a wonderful
watermelon for $1. Thus, the trip was a success.

I can only hope that the "exquisite corpse" poems we developed as a group make you think you are a small child looking at spray-painted bull's balls...

Here's one of them:

Sounds of Fleas

Mellow, my love, it's Sunday.
Open big--that was a good verb,
quiet and gravely, our $3 dusty shoes
better than cheap lines at Wal-mart.
The air there is stiff with disease;
out here, at least we can breathe.
You know it's the Grace of God
They're going to be looking for us...getting lost.
Pimpin' ain't easy, very similar Tricky
as the gravel crunches under baby stroller wheels
& the click-clack of the spatulas--
Sounds of a dentist drill? an engine?
Or the police siren pimping its G6 song--
the you part--the crowds--I come through--sound--
But no one pays attention; they bounce, bounce
looking for American Freedom that isn't really free
& 25 cent headbands ¿Queda bien? Does the Mexican shift
fit on me? Diga amor--no one says much
by the cars, but speak about buying, about engines,
¡Andele! The sounds on our shoes, so much dust.