Caliber

Sorrow left the barrio for a moment
ignoring traffic signals

the city buses
full of sins and hormones

Marilyn’s blue lips
kissed by a coroner’s lackey

the Hollywood sign
happily slicing throats

a smile in Santa Monica
was the last surviving ache

if grass had eyes
would it not see this

if Toribio could talk
would he toss his gun

even joy
has its doubts

East Of The Freeway Poetry Slam

in memory of El Tapon

my mentor is the barrio
its guts

its dilapidated houses
its dirty playgrounds

punks and just plain kids
high on something

colorized
by the color on my skin

automatic scum
if you will

I do not draw sustenance
from the past

I dive into the flooded arroyo
I rush into burning houses

the outside scars
fade with time

the inside scars
fester

contrary to popular belief
they do not make you stronger

I prosper in the barrio
because I am made of it

said the slam poet
busted lip bloody nose and all

Ventana

I followed the mangy dog
into a barrio

you could count the bones
of his ribs and shoulders

the sunken eyes
of its lost race

no illustrious ancestors
no hope to lick while waiting for tomorrow

children threw stones
at him

drunks kicked at him
old ladies yelled at him

with his tail between his legs
he saw his reflection in a storefront window

startled
I recognized myself

Poem With Mexicans

I was buying my tacos
at La Joyita

when two Mexicans walked in
one ordered tacos de lengua

quiero las tortillas tostaditas
he told the girl behind the counter

the other one the shorter one
got a Jarito morado

telling the taller one
es bueno pa la cruda

good for the hangover he said
it was two in the afternoon

the sun
was taking a hammer to the sky

knocking birds to the ground
as if they were teeth

I got my tacos and left
being careful where I stepped

Shitcase

(slight Mexican memories of Las Cruces)

Oh to be Navajo
and allergic to horses and hay

overhead
an eagle on duty

the red mesas
become light bulbs at dusk

elders have a funny way
of making laws

birds
flying like children in the skies

the boy
herding sheep of dust

For Señorita Scenario

In the hotel of needles
you bought the clumsy pile

a fig has died
in a concentration camp

the color pink
twisting to ginger and back

no one deserves
justice

shadows shot over and over
I mail

the last drop of water
the pulse

the impediments are wrong
I drop the sea and break it

Birthday Girl

(a day late and a dollar short)

today is her birthday
along the side of a hill

stars like fingers
in the winter’s night

moon wings
just below her beautiful chin

god I loved her
so much

my fiery heart
twisting in a furrow

the love poetry I wrote
dry now

erotic dust
kicked up by her breathing

kisses
dropping like flies