Chicano Poet

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

Glamour Shots

She remembered how scared she was
of having to tell the truth.

No one really
takes responsibility for this land of love,

she thought,
as she shoveled sand

into a pail,
sea shoulders,

sea chins,
sea whiskers

like that of her
barnacled lover

crashing over
her blonde head at the hair salon

where Fernando frets
over her ocean life.

Friday, February 15, 2013

To The Beat Of A Werewolf

Her eyelashes have seen it all
moon at bat

neutron stars
picking up their fielder's glove

fans above
and beyond dust

her lips
score big

those nagging doubts
of beauty there to harness

those nagging doubts
of beauty

reach out to the werewolf
at night

her high heels
real as real will allow

and sheer nightgown
which cracks and rings

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Falling In And Out

She was in love
with Johnny Fever.

He of the white shirt
102 degrees.

Boiling water
with her look,

lipstick that would burn.
Quite a couple.

Stars washing
their clothes.

Flowers volunteering.
Trees asking for glass.

Glass at the starting line.
Her pink top

matched by her pink top.
Fishbone sex of an angel.

Monday, February 11, 2013

57 Chevy

The car fins
have a thought.

Nineteen fifty

The fins
think they are whispering.

Rounding a corner,
they peek first.

The world
is not such a bad place

except that
it is.

Five arroyos from home
don't make one road,

bent and cluttered.

And if those car fins
were you?

In the backseat

gas pedal
to the floor of the sea.

Friday, February 08, 2013


Stopping by the hoods
on a snowy evening

to see who's shooting up
what twelve year old boy has his

first Saturday night special
what thirteen year old girl

lets her boyfriend
go all the way

what father-figure glories
in setting a bad example

what mother turns
the other cheek

until she's black and blue
like a cop's uniform

what grandmother
is dealing

and which of us do nothing
but skip town

who's stopping by the hoods
on this snowy evening?

Thursday, February 07, 2013

The Pure Products Of Aztlan

There was no one
to drive the car

so Chamaco took the wheel
made the tires squeal

ran the stop signs
the red lights

sped through
school zones

did donuts
on church parking lots

filled up the tank
took off without paying.

People, next time there's no one
to drive the car

make sure
Chamaco's not around,

for your sake
not ours.

Monday, February 04, 2013


The Mexican dead
don't stir you

like a thick broth.
The warm tortillas

on a rickety table.
An old woman outside

gathering clouds,
taking the roundness

from the killer sun
for all it's worth.

Whose broken down
pickup truck is rusting away

and aging well
we're told

and  does not
fan the flames

of her old man
gone all these monstrous years.

Friday, February 01, 2013

His Toy Burnt

God was playing with his toys
when he accidently grabbed Chamaco,

broke one of Chamaco’s wheels,
bent Chamaco’s nose of spring and summer.

Chamaco didn’t hold a grudge,
the power of playfulness suffice,

come through,
stood still, fell over,

but otherwise
nothing became of otherwise.

And God’s incandescence
flamed out in the sky so bright.

Chamaco’s soul of holy rocks
heavy in his old age hung on,

brown scar of having been manhandled by God
only a scar upon the sweet horizon.