Mojo

Chamaco worries about losing his mojo

like the blind sheik.

His smile

going out of style.

His jump

not brown enough.

His barrio

squirting everywhere.

Being mistaken

for Waldo.

His anti-bicicleta

exploding.

His toothpick

tasered for picking teeth.

His mojo on fire

like a Buddhist priest.

His shoes

just dull shinelas.

His bigote

more of a mustache.

His  mojo

climbing all over New York City.

Monkey this

monkey that.

Time tastes

like lime.

Chamaco worries that the night

will pave the way.

He’ll copyright mojo

if he has to.

Que no respeta

his jetas.

His verse

become a rubberband.

His footprints on the moon

wiped clean by pinche Armstrong.

Chamaco worries that aluminum cans

have lost their childhood.

Chamaco worries 

about his invisible scars.

Chamaco whistles

to reassure himself he’s still there.

Like a hot knife through butter

the barrio whistles back.

His concha

too big for his shell.

His enchiladas

son peladas.

Chamaco worries

about his mojo.

His words

escaping him.

His skin

again refusing to be brown.

His barrio

jumping ship.

His loco

not being crazy enough.

His coco

coconut.

His mojo

is a mess tonight.