I Am a Liar/Soy Un Mentiroso
I have never hogtied a dust devil in the yellow llano Seco.
I have never caught a thunderstorm in a Mason jar in the Big Bend.
Never rode for eight seconds the Marfa lights or shoot down a bright, blinking star with an Apache bow on the Rio Grande.
I have never stolen Willie’s boots or De la Rosa’s accordion or Stevie’s guitar or Selena’s voice.
I have lied about outracing Gregorio Cortez on a dusty strip near Manor.
Lied about shooting Sam Bass in the back of a Round Rock H-E-B.
That time I fished off the coast of South Padre with Cabeza de Vaca never happened.
The time I rode a thin, painted horse alongside Quanah on the Okla. /Texas border was obviously a lie.
The only truth I have? The grit between teeth while twisting baling wire around a twisted mesquite post to hold a taut strand of barbed wire.
The heavy, iron scent of blood dripping from a gash on your cheek where a wrench flew out your hand from a diesel motor. Rubbing sore eyes after 12 hours in the cold glow of a computer, spying for flaws in your coding.
Taste of salt from sweat while you’re bent over a hot stainless steel sink full of pots and pans, from the lunch rush, peek between suds.
Toil is the truth of Texas, so I lie to escape.
And that is the whole truth.