Chicano Poet

Thursday, January 16, 2020

As I Lay Dying


Why does Dylan Thomas look at me
as I go gentle into that goodnight?

Why does Robert Lowell run out of juice
every manic Monday?

Why did Sylvia leave a note on the refrigerator,
“Too cold to die in here.”

Why did Allen Ginsberg come to Texas
and waste his New York minute?

Drunk as hell, Ann Sexton
pinched her clitoris in anger.

Sunday, December 29, 2019

Caballeros

I’m talking to Robert Frost,
I’m estimating the cost

of a mending wall
at the mall.

Winter is long gone,
leaving us rhyming in the sun.

Robert’s got a little horse
which looks a lot like Harold Norse.

He’s taking him to the very farmhouse
whose owner always acts a louse.

We don’t talk much about art,
lest we give his little horse a start.

March 17, 2010

Friday, December 27, 2019

Algo O Nada

the poem 
is a small
imperfect interruption
of space

it can be filled
or emptied
of its innards
on a whim

it exists
at the will of others
it waits
at the will of others

it will carry on
all by itself
parched, dusty
until someone

comes along
breathes the words out loud
makes it a poem again
and closes the page

October 12, 2009

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

A Visit To America
by Quetzalcoatl Sandoval

Perhaps in no other country in the world is the poet
separated from the average person as much and as
distant. Even in a community such as a university the
poet is held at arm’s length by the Others. Because
he is a specialist in a field which is not tangible or at
least made of rare parts of the molecule which can 
never be seen or touched. If the poet is bold enough
to announce his existence he must either be a very
brave soul or the village idiot. Other poets may crawl
to his defense but not wholeheartedly--- no battles
or wars ever won. Defensive wounds are nothing to
brag about. How did America come to despise and
disown its poets? It is no secret that Americans have
gradually lost the use of language, relying instead on
grunts, slang, and blows to the chest or face. They
only use verbs. They can not use fingers, their life is
all knuckles now. Their thighs have reverted to scrapping
along. Maybe I have overstayed my welcome in Nuyor.
Tomorrow I will return to Mexico City. Perhaps I will
have more to say on the subject when I have a chance
to re-charge my batteries.

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Threw My Love

I threw my love
out the sixth story window.

Rest assured
the sound made a flowery splat.

The moon inflamed
like a wild poet prick.

It’s better than taking
a hatchet to the distant stars.

The car she landed on
sped away wearing her short skirt.

The busty weather girl said mistakenly
bricks will rain down on ladybugs.

SWAT team members
arrived by rusty sunken submarine.

The perfect crime
always next to a pond.


Sunday, December 08, 2019

His Toy Burnt
God was playing with his toys
when he accidently grabbed Chamaco,
broke one of Chamaco’s wheels,
bent Chamaco’s nose of spring and summer.
Chamaco didn’t hold a grudge,
the power of playfulness suffice,
come through,
stood still, fell over,
but otherwise
nothing became of otherwise.
And God’s incandescence
flamed out in the sky so bright.
Chamaco’s soul of holy rocks
heavy in his old age hung on,
brown scar of having been mishandled by God
only a scar upon the sweet horizon.

Thursday, November 21, 2019

Elegy Pa Tomas Rivera

Y si se lo trago la tierra.