Chicano Poet

Saturday, June 28, 2014


I reach over and touch her
while I'm driving down the road at night

shouldn't you be paying attention
to the road she says

and I have never been more in love with her
than I am now

the laws of nature
are more important than the laws of men

one hand on the wheel
the other one deeply in love

Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Chamaco removed the lungs
from his girlfriend while she slept

the chavala
didn't feel a thing

Mexican feelings
are few and far between

Chamaco thought
inside a thought

which was
how his mente operated

his girl skipped rope when she awoke
and found herself so short of breath

she clutched her chest
and then the rest

Chamaco said here
she gave him the evil eye & giggled

Friday, June 20, 2014

A friend emailed the link to this review
of my book.

Chronicling Verse

by Wilhelm Logan

Unless the poetry is written by a white man
or a white woman, I do not normally waste
my time reading ethnic poetry, but I had to
make an exception just this one time. Though
I don't consider Chicano poetry an art at all,
the so-called Chicano poet Reyes Cardenas
writes awful, embarrassing verse which I
thought perhaps I could put a stop to. Mr.
Reyes, and I use the term very lightly, pretends
to know white poetry and makes references
to our great white poets. He employs the
surrealism though he has no right the
plagiarize the white invention. He makes fun
and ridicules our exiled Russian poets, he
condemns our condemnation of Siberia. He
has flagrantly stolen characters right out of
Weldon Kees' cold dead hands and used the
characters for his own foul purposes. The thief!
Thievery which he inherits from his Mexican
ancestry, no doubt. Just because he was
discriminated against ( and rightly so), he
calls us gringos. He even writes science
fiction stories which obviously belong to
the white tradition of Asimov and others.
Only other Mexicans would publish this
kind of insulting rubbish. Please do not
buy his books. You will do literature
a big favor.

Wednesday, June 18, 2014


When she runs away from home
in her sleep

the zombies
walk along the railroad tracks

she ducks
into the darkened trees

her plastic sword
at the ready

the world has come to this
she whispers out loud

her clothes
a shadow of their former selves

her father and mother
torn apart by the hordes

her little sister
buried and risen from the dead

does the real world exist
face the facts she tells herself

as she dashes through the woods
on a moonless night

and when she wakes up
in her own warm bed

she longs
for the nightmare instead

Friday, June 13, 2014

Love Bravos

If only I could love you
and not lust after you

day or night
and the strange mechanic

on his hands

telling you
of pistons

accusing me
of having run you

into the ground
your family

standing outside my door
dragging the poems

I wrote for you
the neighbors

on the grass

as if they really knew how
the bastards

if only I could love you
most of all

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Poem Noir

Your scent still on my fingertips
I dive into the stony sky like a bird

we must cherish each discarded word
in silence

the house sits
on its haunches like a cat

the dog's nose
must know what's up

and launders children
with his tongue

my wife will be home soon he says
driving through traffic in her comet

six miles wide
ready to destroy lust

do you hear the garage door

the icy tail of the comet
melting on the garage floor teeth

Friday, June 06, 2014

Friends (and Enemies)

This is just to inform you that I will
not be reading any of your poetry,
be it in book form, magazines,
periodicals, journals, ebooks or
on the internet. I will not attend
poetry readings or open mics. Also
do not snailmail or email me your
poetry because I will simply not
read it. After years and years of
indulging in this stupidity, I have
finally come to the realization that
it's a worthless art, and whole-
heartedly urge you to give up the
folly yourselves. But, if you insist
on carrying on with your delusions
of grandeur, include me out! Here's
hoping you find some other profession
to pursue (not that poetry was ever
really a profession). Good luck,
you talentless knuckleheads.

Karl Kaput, MFA

Monday, June 02, 2014

Scrap Iron

The last time I saw Paris
it was full of Mexican girls

who had taken the Eiffel Tower apart
to sell for scrap iron

their shiny thighs
gave them away

walking in the dry
riverbed of the Seine

a rusty Nazi motorcycle
still spread tetanus

and no one was more homesick
for tortillas than these muchachas

as stone by stone
they dismantled the Louvre

to ship back to Mexico
so the Pyramid of the Sun

could reach new heights
dealing low blows to its race