The Purple Horse

I never saw a purple horse,
but I can tell you this of course,
if it ate the purple grass
I would not smell the purple gas.

Mexican Mind Meld

They have to chop off my legs
says the Mexican.

How will I chase
the burro?

How will I swing
my machete?

How will I hunt
Juan Oso?

To which his wife
said quietly,

“but, viejo, you’ve never
done any of that before!”

Barrio Storm

Twin dogs are barking
for electricity in this sullen neighborhood

men wear lipstick and high heels
to the grocery store

a star is dragging its tail
across the night sky

and each speck of light must be responsible
for its own waywardness

my princess leaves the door wide open
she is naked

I steal a dirty nasty kiss
the dogs have moved on

smashed to smithereens
by something as simple as life

Growing Up Brown And Unblessed

What La Virgen de Guadalupe
was doing under the waterfall, I don’t know.

My brothers ran off
into the vast distance.

Someone was burning tires,
sending a thick black smoke

in the direction of happy drug dealers.
A nine and ten year old

were smoking dope with their mother.
The elementary school

was turning out beautiful dropouts.
Cops gathered around the waterfall.

I was in handcuffs,
no one’s supposed to go

underneath the goddamn waterfall they said.
I was dripping wet

when they threw me into the jail cell
with the lanky prostitutes

who were so impressed
with my deadly young eyes

and my brown legs protruding like genitals
from my short pants.

The Horse

The horse
was galloping through a meadow
wondering what happened to the fellow.

Burro Day

I can’t speak for other burros
but for me

being Burro-American plays no role
in my life as a burro.

Neither does the fact that I’m
a male burro.

I am indeed a very complex burro.
Heehaw. Heehaw.

Sorry about that.
I guess one can not escape one’s burro-ness.

It’s unfair to ask every burro
to fight for burro equality.

It’s unfair to ask a burro
to be the first burro in the major leagues.

Someone has to be burro-come-lately.
Heehaw. Heehaw.

Like I said before. (And this embarrasses me to no end.)
I guess one can not escape one’s burro-ness

Skipping Stones

I’m sitting with Janay
in her Nash Rambler.

I’m skipping stones
off her thighs.

Her sex is shining
like the sun.

Her lips
orbit the moon.

The gravel street
is a conveyor belt of love.

The streetlight
thinks it can light up the universe.

Ripples spread out on the floorboard
from Janay’s panties.

Suddenly the windshield wipers
wipe us away.

The Crane

The crane
is feeding on the pond,
the minnow's sliding down inside its neck...thinking...

The Poet

I think
that I shall never see
a thing
as lovely as a poem by me.

Raza Comica

The blue plate special
featured beans

I told the waitress
bring me mas

and more pico del gallo
don’t be shy, chulita

she brought coffee
dark as a black hole

the moon was busy
but had come to earth

in the white man’s arroyo
La Llorona was chingona

my short pants upon a chair
la vieja making bacon

I don’t know where
she got the maranito

maybe aplastado by the moon
when it ran out of air

it crushed the pyramid
I use to brag about

we have so much
not to be proud of it’s funny

Old Neighborhood

I'm walking around the old neighborhood
I never left

the run-down house
begs me to come in

I see it's horrible death
and say maybe next time

the dying chinaberry tree
invites me to climb

I tell it
I don't want to fall

the teenage girl next door
I used to lust for

comes to the screen door
lures me with her  thighs

full of cellulite and wrinkled now
I pretend I don't see her

all the old neighbors
gather in the middle of the street

smile and nod and wave
they want a hug

I leave in a hurry
because the past

can make you sick
when it comes back

just slightly
out of snyc

Papi Was A Rolling Stone

Papi was a rolling stone
even before mami died

he spread his wings
aguila con aguilas

always looking from the sun
an eye for distant stars

he longed for the high life
no matter how many times he crashed

he picked himself up
he dusted himself off

and up he went
papi was a rolling stone

who’d left his ancestral home behind
to live where angels fear to tread

papi was a rolling stone
God welcomed him instead

Trees Outside A Cantina

Outside the cantina
the trees were drunk with music

a few leaves were belligerent
threatening to cut off each other

at the stems
the veins running along one leaf

were throbbing
the wind refused to get involved

the night was dark
but only because that was its job

and the moon
had worked up a technique

where it would just float in the sky
and pretend to be white

the leaves still rustled
but the fight was over

and no leaf was lying dead
upon the ground