Chicano Poet

Monday, February 13, 2006

Fleurs du mal, baaaby

the flowers have somehow
learned when it is time
to leave

they have been paying attention
to the neighborhood
the chicano gangs

whose faces move like snails
unable to find
a bridge to drink

a long river to smell
a bottle with which
to torture paradise.

the naked girl
her eyes poked out
rattles her heart into a square

that forces its way
among other square things
bloody words gagged in half a word.

when it is time to leave
no dirt is chewed
in her underwear.


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