Chicano Poet

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Christmas In Boston

There is electricity in the bay
and the pointed ears of the sun
are the first thing you see on the other horizon.

We drive around in circles
through the rotary at Hingham,
outer space a hundred miles away.

At Bldg. 19 you fall in love
with a sofa that has recliners at each end.
......the things one remembers.....

The rusty Boston freeways need a coat of paint,
diving as they do,under the sea.
You smoke up a storm in the van,

the smoke rings escape and
ground all traffic at
Robert Lowell Confessional Airport.

When the smoke clears
I fly back to the heart of Texas,
home of Lyndon"Beans" Johnson,the Mexican Governor.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

For Max

Do not go gentle into that adios
fight,fight like the chicano kid,
bloom like the pastures of Nixon,Tejas...

Rage against the disappearance of the words,
words you shaped out of the Nothing
that the whites wanted you to have.

The stars glittered like we
dreamed the chicano movement
would sweep across Aztlan.

Cruising Culebra in the 1970's in your
Volkswagen Beetle,we were heading here-----
it is only now we have arrived.

Like Musketeers we drew our words
and slashed at the enemy,
in our determined fashion.

We may not take our place
among the great chicano writers,
but,live by the word,carnal,live by the word!

Monday, June 28, 2004

The Wild,Wild West

The tanks are rolling into Palestine,

The Palestinians are being herded like cattle,

Git 'em up,git 'em up,git 'em up-----
Round 'em up,round 'em up,round 'em up-----

The tanks are rolling into Palestine,

The rocks are flying at the tanks,
flying,flying-----shattering against the tanks.

The tanks are rolling into Palestine.
The wild,wild west,the wild,wild west.

Sunday, June 27, 2004

Soup Nazi

Cheney owns the Supreme Court
Cheney owns Bush’s behind,
Cheney and Haliburton run America.

It’s really just a demo of democracy
as you can tell if you’re not rich.
The poor are the rich peoples’ bitch.

They pimp us to the world,
they brainwash young soldiers
into believing the noble cause of the rich.

The rich do not care about liberty and democracy,
liberty and democracy are the enemy of the rich.
They despise abortion because it depletes their slave pool.

The Evil Empire has become us,
our panzer divisions spread out over the world.
We are the soup nazi of oil.

Cheney wears his Adolf mustache proudly
shouting the f-word at Senators
who question his blitzkrieg against the disadvantaged,

against women, against children, against veterans
against anybody who questions his dictatorship.
Meanwhile, Bush is still trying to read My Pet Goat.

Saturday, June 26, 2004

Elvis Cardenas

I gyrate my hips at the audience of young girls,
I'm singing my ass off
about some girl I used to love.

My sideburns are so long
I have to brush them away from my shoulders
so I can basanova.

The girls are screaming and crying my name
to no one in particular,
Viva Las Vegas.

I'm making love to my music,
I hold a note for so long
I turn Blue Hawaii.

I thrust my hips at the crowd,
I'm a dancing fool...throw a cape over my back,
I'm Mexican Brown!

I'm Elvis the pelvis,vato,
I'll rip you apart with my this---
the Mississippi Moon Walk.

I thrust my hips at the audience,
chicano poetry flashes in the bright lights.
Follow That Dream.

Sometimes, I just have to sit back and relax
with a peanut butter taco,
Love Me Tender,

But never forget that I want to be
the poet in your heart and mind,
your Teddy Bear.

Friday, June 25, 2004

Dead Sea Scrolls

This is the way we bulldoze children,
this is the way we bulldoze children,
so early in the morning.

This is the way we shape their future,
this is the way we shape their future,
so early in their lives.

This is the way we make our enemies,
this is the way we make our enemies,
not with bombs but with Caterpillars.

This is the way we teach the children,
this is the way we teach the children.

Thursday, June 24, 2004

A Day In The Life Of An Old Chicano Poet

My hair is turning whiter than these black lines,
and though the roots dip into the same bottle
it is never the same ink.

I'm the same old chicano poet many of you
have known over the years,
still unsure of anything outside of poetry.

I eat my beans and tortillas when I can,
though here in Blancoville
there is no such animal.

Brandishing assault weapons,
the INS removes Elian
from the face of Miami.

Meanwhile the old revolutionary simmers in Havana,
longing for the days
when Che still walked the earth.

And I think back to the Sixties
when Buddhist priests were flammable
like chicano literature.

Whatever happened to Tigre's roar,
and Alurista's roadmap to Floricanto---
we're not in Aztlan anymore,Tonto!

The circle of the Aztec calendar
has become a flat line, and
no new chicano poets are being made in the U.S.A.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Transcendental Cumbia

I was waddling along like a Mexican duck
when my wife yelled,"you're not dancing a cumbia!",
and I yelled back,"you're damn right!".

For I was in fact dancing a transcendental cumbia
thoughtfully and thoughtfully
I transcendentalized along the barroom floor.

The drunks knew what I was doing
I could see it in their beady eyes,
they were saying to themselves,this guy is good.

The bargirls foamed at the mouth
as I danced along like an American Matador,
no,not the damn car!

What are you guys,uneducated or what?
A young girl wants to dance with me,
but my wife slaps the piss out of her.

we finally leave the Eastside of the freeway
former home of El Tapon.

We head back to the suburbs
where nothing don't mean nothing-----
unless it's followed by dot com.

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Pedro Cardenas

for my grandfather

The past speaks for itself,
I stand outside the situation
like if I don't belong here.

The words fly of their own accord,
making themselves visible.
They appear right here.

The gulf is blue and white and brown,
eschewing the primary colors,
sort of.

The sand suspends molecular
in the salt-spray and sea-breeze.
Palm trees bend the downtown district.

Tall buildings jut out
from the high-ground,
not much defense there.

Especially when another Carla hits.
Hopefully the statue of Selena
will be left standing.

In the aftermath of the hurricane,
my grandfather collected clothes
and canned food,

we loaded everything into a trailer
and drove it to the Auditorium.
The damage in town was tremendous.

My brothers and I walked
across the street to the beach,
Valentin,Julian and Reyes.

The destruction amazed us,
and us thinking of it as a one-time thing,
still unaware of the natural world.

Coming down we were stopped
at National Guard road blocks,
my grandfather would get out and talk,

and soon we would be on our way.
Heading towards Corpus Christi,
into the eye of the storm.

The words speak for themselves,
the windowless skyscrapers looked
like a scene from Planet of the Apes.

A little anachronism doesn't make
too much of a difference in time---
I wish I could remember every feeling,

every thought,every emotion
that went through our young minds.
We tossed sticks and shells into the bay.

The bay was still churning
and all the breakwaters lay
like Greek ruins in the waves.

Soon we headed back inland---
losing the taste of the salt air
by the time we drove through Taft.

Back in Seguin we had stories to tell,
and oddly enough,
I didn't tell mine until today.

Monday, June 21, 2004


All the instruments agree
it was a cold day in Enero
and the temperature was near cero.

The clouds came down
and produced a heavy nieve,
the kind that not even God can mueve.

The mountains froze and re-froze,
not even a snowmobile could caminar
against the fierce winds of the lugar.

I see your face,Cecilio,
battling against the odds that are igual
whether here on earth or in Nahuatl.

When you reach the top of the pyramid
make sure you send us one of your poemas
that explains away all of the problemas.

My Grandson Joe Matthew Posted by Hello

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Don't Drink The Coconut Water


A warrior is lying bloodied
in the dusty streets,
his other leg lies half a block away.

Back home there is an uproar
over somebody publishing pictures
of flag-draped coffins.

Welcome to the real world
you sons-of-bitches. Did you think
this was a made-for-TV-movie?

A teenage girl lies dead on a wooden table,
her eyes wide open, a gaping hole
where her left breast used to be.

There’s a burning car at an intersection.
A human barbecue
hangs halfway out of the door.

Not far away a Humvee burns,
and a soldier’s helmet is being tossed about
by an angry crowd of onlookers.

Meanwhile, back at the Crawford Outhouse
the President insists that we are winning the war,
but his dumb-ass smile says otherwise.

Wednesday, April 28, 2004