Chicano Poet

Monday, March 12, 2007


The next morning he wakes up in Florida,
apparently having followed his dream girl
up the Gulf Stream, past Jamaica,

past Cuba, past the teenage Fidel Castro.
The Gill Man’s fossilized webbed-feet
leave his calling card on the beach.

It has taken him years to get here,
but time does not exist.
Time is a physical impossibility.

There she is, there she is.
His heart beats lizard-loud,
his eyes float like cork.

Robinson wakes up again
in his beastly apartment.
His wife is making coffee,

its aroma could not prompt
an amphibian to such desires, he decides.
“Why is there sand in my slippers…”

he wonders as he walks into the kitchen?
Fried eggs and toast give him
the temporary amnesia he relishes.

In the black coffee
a lagoon forms,
hiding Robinson’s inner most self.

He evades the spinning spoon,
the solar system of solid metal
sweeps by his shoulder,

the sugar grains swirl,
and settle his reptilian brain.
The sun presses its face against the kitchen window.


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