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.