Chicano Poet

Friday, April 28, 2006

The Chicano Gulliver

I am the Chicano Gulliver
and an army of white men
tie me down to the ground,

I must do their dirty work for them,
I must slide my throat
along the shiny glass of their wives,

I must clean the toilets
of their untouchable empire,
I must build their new roads,

their new buildings, their new bridges.
I must fight their wars,
they want me to steal black silk for them.

The ropes tear into my wrists,
my ankles, my heart, my stomach.
The ropes tear into my lips.

I am the Chicano Gulliver
and an army of white men
strap me down to my own land.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Desert Island

Robinson was stranded on a desert island
with a man named Robinson.
A dead Rod Serling rotting in the palms.

On a diet of coconuts and loneliness
Robinson subsisted
while scratching his name on the sky

with a seashell washed ashore by storms.
The clouds described themselves to him,
there is no thirst up here they said.

There is no proof the Pope’s a dope
Robinson interrupted fleetingly,
each sand grain a traveler.

Once in awhile he thought he saw a ship
debunk the horizon with desire.
The waves were a scholar!

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

He Grew His Beard Long In A Cave

He grew his beard long in a cave,
his eyes sharp like a sniper’s eyes,
the catacombs dripped famous.

The President and the generals
appear to hoard religious coke
in Christian cavities,

but Robinson looks away
his hair orange like his wife’s photograph
ringing and ringing on the mantle.

He dreamed of Mexico
not realizing that Mexicans congregate,
ticks crawling over Acapulco,

jobless termites eat the steel
the white man has put up.
The pyramids are vases with Ann’s flowers.

Robinson closes the car door
and keeps on dreaming
a dream that kicks at you.

Once inside, Robinson closes the curtains
to reveal panties
which once belonged to Ann’s volition.

He scribbles a poem
that sticks out of the wall
where neighbors see it.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Robinson’s Divorce

There was no nickel in his pocket
with the likeness of Ann
turning round and round.

The trees were occupied
and did not come out of the office
to enjoy the simple rain,

instead they cowered by their jobs,
stone crawled by stone
and would not look up either.

Robinson’s shirt was rumpled
sitting down and standing
as Robinson.

The picture windows reflected
other picture windows
and thought nothing of it,

almost as if they intended to exclude
even a shadow proposed by Robinson.
His broken heart was flying like pigeons

from skyscraper to skyscraper
until man stopped building heads
on Easter Island.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Elevator Music

Robinson perfected his look
in the elevator to the 48th floor,
a leaf twisted on a tree down below

passing on its knowledge of what wind will wish.
The traffic blared like a radio
from the antennae of Adam.

Eve naked in the garden
of Sears and Roebuck,
her generation cupped by God’s hands,

his knuckles hid the bones
procured from a nearby star
that twinkled in the dirt of the park.

When Robinson inquired of the receptionist,
her long dress was excited by her legs
undulating in an orgasm of cloth.

None of this entered Robinson’s mind,
concerned as he was
with this and that word.

Friday, April 21, 2006

The Fog Comes In

The cat paced back and forth
looking for Robinson no doubt,
a little claw scratching Milpitas

while Robinson himself hauled-ass
in his 1954 Plymouth Savoy,
a toy fire engine safely in its toy firehouse.

The cops are piloted like cake,
they sleep about the city
while their wives cheat on them.

Robinson starts to slow down,
time in a quart of oil looks black.
The outside world holds up a hand.

There’s not much we can do
about the car door made of metal
if we are only made of flesh.

Robinson wrote a poem about Robinson.
Back in the apartment
the cat appears to have written Sanskrit.

The fog comes in wearing a skirt
that looks familiar enough to abandon
and to renege on a button.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Grand Piano

Robinson was not you and I,
certainly no more Chicano
than Henry or Mr. Bones,

you can’t take the porchlight
and replace it with a star
whose planets circle dead.

There is no constellation in Omaha
whose tail drags Lincoln snow
out of town.

The chair knows Robinson by name.
Who knew furniture would envy
a dog wagging its tail?

Robinson read the paper
and thought that Russia sucked,
he would not be fooled

by the pretty fences they had built.
Drop a grand piano on somebody’s head,
death is not cacophony.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Ode To A Grecian Earthquake

Robinson’s ex-wife had a mole
on the inside of her thighs
in a place meant only for a husband’s eyes,

the phonograph played Chopin.
In the kitchen the music vibrated
from a frying pan,

food itself played like a record.
Troubles of a spoon
unknown to humankind.

He mellowed in her face
all these years later
like a ladder to the autumn leaves.

Robinson turned the corner
and the buildings fell in Athens
thousands of miles from his lapel.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Robinson Talks Girls

Robinson talks girls with Spangler Arlington Brugh,
Greek onomatopoeia bouncing on his fingertips,
a sofa’s ego staining a corner of the room.

The curves a woman possesses
on the streets, on escalators,
in elevators, bending over,

in the act of love,
these curves become shadows
on the bridges of New York City.

The taxis fornicate yellow,
no Arab at the helm.
The elevated train terrain

suddenly sinks underground
and Robinson grabs his umbrella
against the sun and rain.

He grabs his typewriter by the ears
and holds it up in the borough air.
Wood in the nearby hills protested,

but Robinson went about his business.
His pocket watch keeping time
with the coal black eyes of tomorrow’s dust.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Pick up the pieces,
Throw them away, say amen,
Because like Humpty Dumpty,
I can't be put back together again.

Weldon Kees,
from his song "Pick Up The Pieces"

Weldon Kees Discovers That God Is A Chicano

As Weldon Kees jumped off the giant bridge
back home a half-consumed bottle of milk
occupied a chipped and lonely fridge,

the orange paint of the colossus
resembled that of the California sun.
Weldon thought the water would feel like molasses.

On his way down he was surprised to see
dead souls going up
still wet and blue and third degree.

He put his head between his legs
and kissed his butt goodbye.
Sometimes the dog of death sits up and begs.

Yet, Weldon had no time at all
to think about his poetry
busy as he was imagining St. Paul,

but when he got there God himself was at the gate
dressed in flowery Bermuda shorts
and he was infuscate.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Eduardo At McDowell

I thought I saw Eduardo at McDowell,
I thought I saw Allen before Howl,
I thought I saw Ted Roethke in a towel.

I thought I saw Alurista on a bicycle,
I thought I saw Tomas Rivera whimsical,
I thought I saw Carmen Tafolla reach the pinnacle.

I thought I saw Lowell lose it,
I thought I saw Bukowski bruise it,
I thought I saw Sylvia Plath abuse it.

I thought I saw a poet being tortured,
I thought I saw a poet being nurtured
and a vast variety of fruit in the orchard.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Emily Dickandthensome

I heard a fly buzz when it buzzed.
I ain’t no goody-two-shoes Dickinson
stuck in a house with dinosaurs,

if I hear a fly buzz I don’t cuss
in a poetic language beyond time,
I get a fly swatter for the squatter.

I reach for the bleach
to get rid of all these brown people
and then attend church steeple.

I heard a fly buzz when it buzzed,
it flew about the ceiling and the sky
vexed because it could only see convex.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

A Shady Cop Pretends To Be

A shady cop pretends to be
a thirteen-year-old-girl online
to trap the predators depraved,

they groom their Meinkampf look,
fantasies flying like light-sabers
and the johns are carted off.

The digital age runs rampant
from New York City to Smallville.
Man reinvents the wheel

and this time it won’t roll,
if you’re the first man on the moon
you must be H. G. Wells,

if you’re the last of the Mohicans
please leave your DNA
so we can implicate you one fine day.

A shady cop pretends to be
a nasty little girl in drag
and the Chief becomes aroused.

It must be true what they say
after awhile you can’t tell the difference
between the prisoners and the guards.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Julius Cesar Alley Way

The Three Little Pigs remind us that most
white Texans came here illegally, a lot of them
were slave-rapers and a lot of them were criminals.

Et Tu, Brute?

The Three Little Pigs sit between
Victor and Ilsa as the plane
speeds down the foggy, bumpy runway,

their tails folded neatly
for the long ride
to the Italian rash of New York City,

buildings imagine other buildings,
carbon monoxide has fallen in love
with your unanswerable ass.

They will someday use your brown skin
on the Statue of Liberty,
bees wearing helmets against you.

The Three Little Pigs spin tuxedos
in a taxi syllable,
cute as hell and twice as large.

Ilsa and Victor walk hand in hand,
Rick in her brain cells.
Cesar stabbed by snouts.

Monday, April 10, 2006


Brick after brick and brick,
he builds the impenetrable house
like a virgin,

the smokestack clitoris of Hiroshima
and Major Strasser is shot
while on the Barbie phone.

A wolf can puff and puff
until he meets his Waterloo
at the water cooler.

A pig will marshal all his slop,
pornography to us
is sacred to the Three Little Pigs.

There is no honor in honor,
the plane flies off in the enamel.
Not everyone will ride a camel.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Train Station

At Café Pierre in the Montmarte District
they read about the German advance,
troops, tanks and planes,

they promise to meet at 5 o’clock
at the train station,
a rabbit scampers in the crowd.

The second little pig dressed like a Japanese
peers into every window of the train.
The soul of a pig resides in its tail.

Rick wants to marry Ilsa in Marseilles
but she’s a runaway bride,
glittering from a mournful sea.

The stickhouse inside Rick’s Café Americain
is warm and cozy,
the wolf in a tent on God’s knee.

Bourbon after bourbon blonde,
the African continent
crashes back into South America,

the hands of Indians
struggle to keep it from happening.
The jackasses gave away their land.

Thursday, April 06, 2006


Signor Ferrari grants letters of transit
just like a famous poet,
all you gotta do is screw him,

his eyes heavy as the moon
ogle Ilsa from breasts to ankles,
his hand a paperweight on hers.

Little worms live on his suit,
living in a cave
only a used-car salesman is worse.

Rick annihilates each lip
on Ilsa’s thighs,
a train crashes in a fez.

So many things could be had
if we could only have them,
the scalp of Paris in an American’s pocket.

A million soldiers die
and they are all mourned.
Sunset is always dark around the edges.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

photo copyrighted by photosearch

Crocodile Tears

Her crocodile tears are genuine,
her panties in pig size,
at least to a Romantic poet would be nice,

a straw house tall as the Atlas Mountains
shatters the myth about the first little pig,
the sea is testing you with its snout.

The fat man doesn’t fit in the bar mirror.
Peter Lorre drops his money
in a nearby exploding star.

Pigs see color, hear bells
and they threaten each other
with an air war.

Sad, if only they had an Air Force.
Rick’s got a temper that disappoints,
Rick’s got a flower for a heart.

If you fold a napkin like the universe
you should still see the pigpen
and the writing on the wall.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

The Three Little Pigs In Casablanca

You’ve never seen the Three Little Pigs like this before,
in color, in the background,
next to the piano Sam triggers

with his new found friend.
Their curly tails magnified
against Rick’s big head,

how could that girl love him
in Paris or here in Casablanca?
A pig eats slop from a sock.

Rick tries to outsmart
the balloon Nazis who rise up to the ceiling,
tanks in a pig conversation.

The Three Little Pigs build their houses,
the wolf is dressed in Victor Laszlo clothing,
his fly undone,

the stickhouse made with rosebush thorns.
With an oink oink here
and an oink oink there,

the Vichy government listens at the door.
The echo of a bottle opener
sits rusting on a barstool.

Monday, April 03, 2006


The Three Little Pigs like you've never seen them before!


I touch you with a lightbulb
like a pig farmer gone bad.
The corn suit with green wrinkles,

the beavers build a damn,
a hell, the carcass of an Indian
drifts by like the continents.

The spice trade finds Plato,
learned pupil of the Startled,
a toga with a rattle,

the Parthenon made of straw
by one of the farmer’s three little pigs,
an elevator of solid rock

rises and falls in the Acropolis.
Dumb Greeks have as many limbs
as their deadly spider.

You trip on the extension cord
and pull the plug on our love.
Your mouth is a big bad wolf.