Chicano Poet

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.


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