.
On the fringe this gem hangs,
The fringe of humanity,
The fringe of the desert,
The fringe of a State,
The fringe of a Nation,
And beautifully the fringe of real.
She beckons with pale blue,
A siren of neon blue,
Spilling out of Mecca,
Calling out across the desert,
And landing softly upon yucca,
Cactus, creosote, and sands,
The wilds of the Chihuahuan hill yonder.
This beautiful undead ghost,
A kickback to times past,
Like the neon sign connecting,
Then to now in the first of mixes,
This establishment born in Prohibition,
Rebellion against Liberty infringement.
Oh how in the thirties,
Her liquor flowed as Free,
An outpost of drunken sanity,
A niche of acceptance and sin,
On the fringe of law then,
Yet upholding that which is True.
Her beckon and connection,
Through time and across culture,
Continues through today,
Announcing Her presence,
Through the blue neon still,
"come all to this sacred place."
This oasis of a lounge and place,
In modern irony called Mecca,
Rings with clinks of glasses,
Sings with multilingual voices,
Moans gleefully in saxophone,
Whispers together in blue neon voice "We are here."
With the moon above, but more quickly,
Voices wax, and the voices wane,
Deftly phasing through languages,
Spanish to English to Spanglish,
And laughter as a full bright portion,
Of shared common translation.
The open air jazz dances,
With the Beauty Blue Neon light,
As the twirling Ango and Mexican couples,
Upon the tiles of a dance area,
Sound and light swirl out yonder,
And combine upon and across the barren Mexican hillside.
Acceptance is here in Mecca,
Equality between Latin and Anglo,
As arrivals come in new Lexus and old Pinto,
Clad in quality silk blouse or economy cotton shorts,
Their money and their presence both welcome,
In the mix within the adobe garden walls.
Afro voice crooning about a girlfriend,
In the song about Mary Jane,
Lights upon the real Mexican girlfriend,
Lists out beyond to Mexanglican audience,
And springs over the walls out there again,
Jazz drifts with Light and Voices to desert floor.
Union Pacific engine rolls past on tracks,
Adding bass thunder background to Jazz,
Red Border Patrol lights combines,
With Neon Blue to royal purple,
Saxaphone wailing with siren in wonder,
For Desert Crossings are revered if legal.
Tempo slows to match the mood,
A softer combination of tones,
A softer combination of cultures,
A softer combination of language,
A softer version of shared laughter,
A figurative embrace of all by all.
Between my fingers the glass,
A sifter holding the key,
Twenty year old port deep red,
Deep sweet, deep warmth in belly,
Deepest appreciation in the soul,
This ancient elixir of Mecca mixer.
The sophisticated port in shared space,
With cheap beer and fine wine,
Spiced by margarita and toned by bourbon,
Brings sense to me, making sense of all,
Her secret began in Prohibition,
And carried to sensible fruition today.
Drifting with the mixing,
My Soul flies free in this Crossing,
Carried softly on breezes,
Of one hundred hot degrees,
Grabbing hold, letting go,
And embracing the beautiful Mix.
Ears lost in just the Jazz,
The unlikely sound of Jazz,
In this most unlikely of desert places,
Soul gladly lost in Mecca,
The unlikely fringe place of Mecca,
Becoming part of One here at the Crossing.
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poem
December 2008 
jeepdog
Access: Public
