Chicano Poet

Thursday, October 10, 2013


Those are big thighs
I tell the showgirl.

The space voyage
on the back of half-eaten fruit

barely over.
My head spins like a rock.

Love is not what
I had imagined.

These girls on Mars,
at least the ones

I've strangled,
shoot up into the sky

like broken pearly steam.
My Beatle jacket

you know
the one with the Nehru collar

is being finger-printed as we speak.
Red dust is not blood

I tell the jack o lantern
in Army garb

whose sole purpose in life
is to die.

You can go it says.
The showgirl was the last straw,

my land speeder
is parked right where I left it,

gathering a ton.
The showgirl kicks up her legs

to show the red planet
at its salty best.


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