Chicano Poet

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know
(we’re illegal aliens, mojados, shhhhh)

the mother’s shooting at us
(Henry, Mr. Bones and Me)
we didn’t see the desgraciado
pinche no trespassing sign---
our little horse must think it queer
to stop without the migra near
but we have miles to go before we pees
unless we disappear like Weldon Kees.


At 4:17 PM, Blogger Lorna Dee Cervantes said...

I've always been a raging fan of yours, some 30 years now, but who's counting?

You count.

I like this poem.

At 11:20 PM, Blogger RC said...

Great to hear from you.Yes,it has been awhile.Checking out your blog now.


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