Chicano Poet

Tuesday, January 29, 2008


My father took the motor apart,
pistons, connecting rods, cam,
tossed the oil pan aside,

oil splashing all over the place,
the floor of the garage
covered in what used to power the car.

He pulled the fenders off,
the radiator, the front tires,
back tires, trunk, taillights.

It was getting dark
so he told me to turn on
the lights.

He tore out the seats,
the radio, steering wheel,
stick shift, ashtrays.

When he was done
he took a red shop rag from his back pocket
and wiped his hands.

It was then, at the age of eight
that I realized
how to write a poem.


At 3:43 PM, Blogger Ivan Donn Carswell said...

Oddly, the analogy is poignantly correct. What one does after creating the poem, eg, replacing fenders etc, demeans the creative process... Rgds, Ivan

At 12:18 AM, Blogger RC said...



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