From the Fishouse

My brother floats like a balloon as we walk through the city,
he's in love and I have to pull his pant cuff
to keep him near me.

Near me is a streetlight turned green.
Near me is a bus stop where a transvestite is sleeping.
Near me is the corner on Sixth and Lavaca.

Austin, Texas was once Something, Mexico
and two Mexican brothers walked
through the city while one of them began to float into the air.

I am becoming the dust-jacket of a pulp Western novel,
a shadow colored in,
how I am sitting in this portrait wearing a poncho & sombrero,

lighting a wet cigarillo in the rain.

Whoever said love lifts us up where we belong was a genius.

It does.

Whoever cried La Vida Loca before it was held down
and beaten into a meaningless song was a philosopher.

It is crazy.

The river is running through the city like a dog that has just torn
through the screen door, wild in the yard,

and I am holding a pistolero in my hand,
near the corner of Eighth and Lavaca,
hoping that my brother will float back down before I have to draw
the gun from its holster, hoping that if it’s between me and the river

it will be me getting up in the morning.