Get Off Of My Chicano Cloud

The Death Star
shoots its laser
and Alderaan is gone,

chunks of Aztlan
float in space.
Gringo asteroids

head towards
the spinning sun.
Chicanos take refuge

on Tatooine.
They’re used to
scraping a living

to get by.
The Crazy Gypsy,
Omar Salinas,

rambles on
about golden robots,
there’s a smell of tiny robots

that look
like trash cans.
Get a grip, Omar, get a grip.

But, Omar’s moonwalking
backwards
on the desert,

little clouds
of dust rise
from his shoes

and in those clouds
a thousand ancient
civilizations thrive.