Chicano Poet

Friday, December 03, 2004

Leftover Turkey Vacation

We pull
into a mall
in Palm Springs,

Mr. Bones
is impressed
with the women.

Fifty-year-old women
with the bodies
of young girls.

Mr. Bones
is no chickmagnet,
but he tried.

He had
no luck at all,
so we

took the tramway.
From the top
of the mountain

the grid
of Palm Springs
looked like the Nazca lines.

Just then
an ancient spaceship
buzzed our heads

and told us
we live
in a dictatorship.

The pen ran
out of Inca
as Neruda fell out

and ran off
to the edge of the paper
from Punta Arenas out to sea.


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