Chicano Poet

Thursday, January 29, 2009


The Mexican always flees like a spider,
punishment from blood to blood:

That time you held a knife as hostage,
the police took it so seriously,

the goons placed a narrow God,
dented from the waist down,

to defecate kisses
on your friend Maria’s tresses.

Children were sent to pick up the sea,
sharks falling to the ground in squares.

A gentle cloak on the moon,
beauty itself stuffed into a stick.

The spider and its web
invented the wheel for man.

Our love gone bad,
the metal shavings at our feet.


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