POETRY |
Lost in the DesertWe get desperate as the fierce Sonora Desert, sears as it somewhere hides the wells and become withered trees in its heart.
Our water supply, drying-- Now, our bottles are history and twelve Salvadoran compatriots, died and lost forever: They were swallowed up by the fierce heat despite their efforts. Desperate we have become: we have drunk our deodorants, perfumes and even drank urine like orangutans. Abandoned in the desert by our Coyote, Listen! eight of us lost as sheep eight of us lost as dogs for two days as the fluttering feasting birds fly above, waiting for us to become prey. We say our prayers, praying to the highest power and we apply toothpaste and makeup to our sunburned faces. We hope for a miracle as a twig that bears flowers. I continue to stagger like a fallen pug, beaten. But as my eyes partly close and sight becomes a mist, my heart pounds against my chest and my spirit rekindled. I see the Jeep approaching and hear someone cry behind me: we are blessed…we are blessed…we are blessed |
RunPretend a boom box
blasts over your head. Run fast and cleats dig in dirt. Running as if scoring a touchdown. Look to the left as if crossing crosswalk. Look to the right, as if the gang member is watching you. Bend as if picking blueberries. Do the pivot. Straighten up as if you’re military personnel. Race, do the race. Footwork, do the footwork. Do the arm- pumping—forward and backward. Dig. Do the jump—jumping that wall on to stairs. Your heart beats frantically, all or nothing. Reach and open gate. Now, run. They’re shooting. Run fast and inhale. Dive under the van, and don’t Breathe. Hands holding your face. Drop down. Face at the pavement. Pray and pray. Hear the gangsters run away. Pray and pray. Don’t scream. |
Cruising the Mission
Cruising the Mission in San Fran in the 72 gray Buick Skylark
with my African American Bruddas: Titus and Kenya
just kicking it on a Wednesday afternoon & socializing and hanging out
traveling on wheels in the Mission District
where the fast food enterprise cashes in
on the spineless sale of Gringo and commercialized Mexican food like Taco Bell: low-
income Latinos are the bull’s eye who buy tacos faster and cheaper;
the Taco wars are on against empty stomachs and pocket books.
Not wanting poisonous Tacos, we head to the Los Panchos restaurant.
We are hard-shelled bruddas and wouldn’t get caught dead in a Taco Bell knowing
what’s up with the Taco Bells and Jack-In-The Boxes.
Linked-in culture with
Rap music by
NWA’s song: “Straight Outta Compton”:
“You are about to witness the strength
of street knowledge..."
The Kenwood stereo thumps
where the other throbs.
Cruising the Mission, but lucky we’re not high
off a blunt or Old English
we’re wide awake without light heads or blood-shot eyes
rapping and singing in unison.
We become a quartet of hope and passionate as if 1968
we’re loud in warm company; people pass us
with special sighs
& the white cop senses us (the full-feeling
as if by obsession with historical distance, as if the dread
could not be pre-avoided--)
is that to be profiled, within his gaze, a fixed pattern—
stops car in front of ours--
And the Five-0 gets out of his, buffed and pissed,
walks up on us with his 357 in hand like Dirty Harry—
Puta!—but this is not a movie-- ;
he points the powerful piece onto Kenya’s skull.
You read this history and may relate to it or not! Just beyond
this poem: words flow upstream.
But, the Cop, then, continues with his brutal ways, and turns to all of us--
as if in terror mode—asking for our I.D.s.
As he walks back, the Cop says what we already know: we have clean records,
but warns that we should never follow
a cop as the switch could be turned off! Cruising the Mission! our history is
meaningful and a numbered past.
with my African American Bruddas: Titus and Kenya
just kicking it on a Wednesday afternoon & socializing and hanging out
traveling on wheels in the Mission District
where the fast food enterprise cashes in
on the spineless sale of Gringo and commercialized Mexican food like Taco Bell: low-
income Latinos are the bull’s eye who buy tacos faster and cheaper;
the Taco wars are on against empty stomachs and pocket books.
Not wanting poisonous Tacos, we head to the Los Panchos restaurant.
We are hard-shelled bruddas and wouldn’t get caught dead in a Taco Bell knowing
what’s up with the Taco Bells and Jack-In-The Boxes.
Linked-in culture with
Rap music by
NWA’s song: “Straight Outta Compton”:
“You are about to witness the strength
of street knowledge..."
The Kenwood stereo thumps
where the other throbs.
Cruising the Mission, but lucky we’re not high
off a blunt or Old English
we’re wide awake without light heads or blood-shot eyes
rapping and singing in unison.
We become a quartet of hope and passionate as if 1968
we’re loud in warm company; people pass us
with special sighs
& the white cop senses us (the full-feeling
as if by obsession with historical distance, as if the dread
could not be pre-avoided--)
is that to be profiled, within his gaze, a fixed pattern—
stops car in front of ours--
And the Five-0 gets out of his, buffed and pissed,
walks up on us with his 357 in hand like Dirty Harry—
Puta!—but this is not a movie-- ;
he points the powerful piece onto Kenya’s skull.
You read this history and may relate to it or not! Just beyond
this poem: words flow upstream.
But, the Cop, then, continues with his brutal ways, and turns to all of us--
as if in terror mode—asking for our I.D.s.
As he walks back, the Cop says what we already know: we have clean records,
but warns that we should never follow
a cop as the switch could be turned off! Cruising the Mission! our history is
meaningful and a numbered past.
How to Make Pupusas
Tip the sun into the bowl you can honor and remember, your Mayan ancestors who never faded away or disappeared like the mist in the morning. You fill it with 1 cup of vegetable oil, corn masa flour, 3 lbs of graded Monterey Queso and 1 cup of water, mixing it in. You start kneading the masa like Mamά does it with her soft-smooth hands that have gently rubbed your forehead, to rub away your migraine headaches; she rolls the masa into balls, makes an indentation with her right thumb, and fills it with the cheese or other ingredients ( I love the combination of cheese with loroco, the herbaceous flower bud). With Mamά’s therapeutic hands, she pats it into a round tortilla. Then she grills the pupusa on the comal until it browns on both sides.
Eat the hardened rainbow with your crimson sky mouth and celebrate Easter Sunday. Hide the milk-chocolate Easter bunnies behind the blueberry bushes that stand tall above the cheery children, and serve the pupusas with Horchata and a plate of rice and beans.
Since Dad and Mom are laid off--don’t worry--pupusas are on the cheap to make. Dance Cumbia and
Salsa and make more. This is how we party!
Eat the hardened rainbow with your crimson sky mouth and celebrate Easter Sunday. Hide the milk-chocolate Easter bunnies behind the blueberry bushes that stand tall above the cheery children, and serve the pupusas with Horchata and a plate of rice and beans.
Since Dad and Mom are laid off--don’t worry--pupusas are on the cheap to make. Dance Cumbia and
Salsa and make more. This is how we party!