Chicano Poet

Saturday, September 07, 2019

Dating Eleanor Rigby

Times are tough
I'm dating Eleanor Rigby

I changed my name today
to yesterday

I don't know what to do
so I'm dating Eleanor Rigby

Her skinny thighs
fold in and out

When she drinks coffee
her lips wrinkle like the Beatles

Times are tough
tell that to Rodney Dangerfield

Hornyness is no excuse
for dating Eleanor Rigby

Times are tough
her tongue has cellulite

Her eyes hold loneliness
in her underwear

Her breasts long ago
were dealt a blow

Times are tough
I'm dating Eleanor Rigby

Monday, August 19, 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.

Sunday, July 28, 2019

Neil's On The Moon

after Gil Scott-Heron

She may lose it all tonight
Neil's on the moon
can't guarantee a thing you know
Neil's on the moon
she's lying down across the bed
Neil's jumping up and down
she may lose it all tonight
while Neil's on the moon
her thighs blast out a desperate song
Neil won't be long
the first time is always the first
and Neil's on the moon

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Miami Vice

for o. q.

Dressed like Don Johnson
he strolls into the literary crowd
like a lion
confident that the savannah
will adhere
to the line of poetry he paints

full of himself
because he has to be
you can't have it
any other way
or it doesn't work

the ego and the id
are always in the driver's seat
vice is a virtue
to the poet and the priest
draw the line if you will
it will not draw itself

Friday, April 05, 2019

I Am Angry At The World

I am angry at the world
for being itself

its having to kill
to live

its having to decay
to renew

its resorting to blindness
to see

I am angry at the world
for being itself

its having to maim
to become whole

its having to ignore me
to push me to the front

and I am angry at myself
for making the world what it is

Sunday, March 10, 2019


Poetry of Survival

by Vincent Cooper

The Westside of San Antonio, Texas is a human panorama hard to describe, especially if you grew up there, or have lived there for any length of time. The task of the poet is to make sense of those streets, those old people, those young people, wayward punks, drug addicts, viejitas, viejitos with the look in their eyes of " I know, I know". Those stray dogs which don't stray, those cats whose nine lives are never enough. As a poet, one must define oneself by those around, brothers, sisters, cousins, mom and dad, the good the bad and the ugly.

Perhaps Zarzamora Street is the backbone of the Westside, the aorta, the wickedness, or the angelic eyes of a Sunday morning, the smell of a bakery, the delinquent scent of tacos, the mingling of menudo. In Vincent Cooper's Zarzamora, the Westside comes alive with life and death.

Whereas with most books of poetry you can just quote a few stanzas of lyrics which stand out and be done with it, with Zarzamora you have to keep digging to the core, until the Westside reaches out to stab you with its ups and downs, with its shortcomings and small victories. It's a book about family deep in the throes of life and death, a family whose survivors can not and will not let go of the past.
Violence and love commingle.

Zarzamora Street is the spine of the barrio, the Westside revolves around it like a black hole sucking everything into it. Young punks, wayward girls, dogs, addicts, the young and the old alike, the jefe, tio Danny, tio Mike, tio Tony, Jody, the grandma who does not want to be resuscitated. The poet struggles with his bills, a hungry dog follows him but gives up...

Vincent Cooper has written a book that will break your heart, a book of poetry that beats like a heart held in the hand. A book as real as Zarzamora Street.

Friday, January 25, 2019

What Do I Miss?

What do I miss?
My wife, my three girls,

the baby daughter
I never got to hold.

My dogs jumping for joy
or misbehaving.

I miss the warm summer sun
and the cold winter winds.

I miss driving
like a bat out of hell.

It hurts not seeing
my girls grow up,

not holding my wife.
I miss not being alive.