Dreaming Of Aztlan Gone Bad

We are driving in your Pacer to Austin,
the reason why escapes me.

We met in the small town of whatsoever,
I said, I’ll show you my poems

if you show me yours,
but then the rains came

and swept away my fellow writers,
my friends, my medals from Nam,

my farmworker sweat, my Denver days,
my Tierra Amarilla palomilla,

my Santos Rodriguez from Dallas,
my Ruben Salazar from East L.A.

Cirol, our own gente turned upon us---
the hound of Aztlan, we supposed.