It's a Mariachi insurrection,

a red neon flashing

sombrero billboard,

chasing down cars

on Eje Central Lazaro Cardenas,

waving trumpetas

and swollen guitarrons

and screaming "La Bamba"

to touristas sloshing

60 peso margaritas.

Like a swarm

of killer wanna-bees

on a merciless conquering march

they rage out of the Plaza

and into traffic,

encircling head lights,

blocking out the sky,

stinging in brassy thirds

and twisted violin unisons.

Taco stand Toreadors

choke sidewalks and alleys

and waist coated stallions

stomp in the dusty gutter rough

to the bellows of a Senora

with tattooed eye-brows

and a filigreed breast plate . . .

the smoke swirls beneath

blue and green tarpaulins,

strung from lamp posts

to window sills,

eyes burn,

ears ring,

and heads spin

as a mini-van full of rancheros

pulls up to the curb,

spilling shots of tequila from the roof

and dancing upon the hood.

Then off they race

to Xolchimilco

where they crash their boat

into the Mexican moon light

and laugh insanely,

rocking the driver overboard,

and sinking their cares

beneath flowery flotsam

to be buried deep

in the drunken silt

at the bottom

of rapture's canal.