Chicano Poet

Monday, July 31, 2006

Andrew Braunberger

Just outside a bunker bombed by the Israelis
stood a shrub on which
a butterfly briefly paused,

just in time to get killed
by the concussion of the 500lb. bomb.
Its tattered wings floated away

and landed dust-covered,
broken antennae separated by small stones,
its abdomen leaking death on the hillside.

Which side did she favor,
Jews, Arabs, Americans, Iranians,
Chicanos, powerless poets, the uncaring rich,

carpenters, soldiers, construction workers,
teachers, drug addicts, plumbers, merchants,
bankers, auto mechanics, magicians?

Her spirit circled the globe
three times before it dissipated
somewhere in our ignorant minds.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Thoroughly Modern Emily

You answered the phone
and it was Emily Dickinson.
“I’m stuck in Beirut

and the bloody Israelis
are bombing the hell
out the city, “
she says,

and, almost out of breath,
she continues, “ the bastards
flew overhead right now,

there is no discrimination
as to where they drop
their bombs laden with Dead Sea Scrolls

which unroll as
they fall out of the sky
like the fly I just heard buzz by my head!”

Then there was silence
at the other end
and she has not called back.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Boris Karloff And His Marimba Band

The marimba band
was raising hell,
and accidentally

woke up the dead.
The Big Bopper
was bopping again.

Richie Valenzuela
played La Bamba
for La Donna.

Jim Croce
got out of
his time bottle,

John Lennon
was wearing
a bullet-proof vest,

Mack the Knife
did by-pass surgery
on James Darren and Elvis,

and the marimba band
kept on playing
all through the night.

Everything was fine
until somebody stepped
on Buddy Holly’s glasses,

right then and there the spell was broken
and the marimba became silent
upon a peak in Darien.

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

water colour by eric morris
David And Goliath

Friends warn David to run away from Goliath,
he’s much stronger, has bigger muscles,
he’s much taller; Vegas odds favor the giant.

Goliath bulldozes David’s house,
kills his wife, daughters, sons.
Goliath levels David’s village.

We don’t know why
but he doesn’t need an excuse,
he doesn’t need reasons.

Goliath levels the neighboring village
and the next village and the next village.
He destroys cities; he destroys every living thing.

But, since you know how the story ends anyway
I won’t spoil it for you except to say
that friends should have warned Goliath.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006


The planes Israel is using
to destroy the infrastructure of Beirut,
destroy factories, schools, roads,

bridges, overpasses, churches, mosques,
these planes are built in Fort Worth, Texas.
War is good for the economy.

U.S. taxpayers provide 20 %
of the Israeli military budget
and Israel in turn

buys weapons from Lockheed Martin,
Boeing and Raytheon.
War is good for the economy.

U.S. military aid is supposed to be used
for defensive purposes only
but war is good for the economy.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Ariel Sharon

The Jewish State is brain dead
like Ariel Sharon.
Near Tel Harfa,Israeli F-16s

attack a convoy of evacuees,
killing twenty people,
twelve burned alive in their cars,

others, like this child
flew through the air
and lies here dead like a ragdoll.

Then the F-16s attack a milk factory in the Bekaa Valley,
they bomb Proctor and Gamble in Bchmoun,
they attack a convoy of ambulances;

in Ashrafieh they bomb two drilling rigs
mistaking them for missile launchers.
The Jewish State is brain dead like Ariel Sharon.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Ehud Olmert

The way they are destroying Beirut,
the carpet bombing, the vengeful destruction,
it's almost as if they are making the Lebanonese

pay for the holocaust.
Buildings, bridges, houses, powerplants,
airports, oil storage facilities,

zoos, daycares, hospitals,
nursing homes, insane asylums,
Red Cross headquarters, children's playgrounds.

The way they are destroying Beirut,
it's almost as if they are making the Lebanonese
pay for the holocaust.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Alley Cat

The alley cat flies through
the bombed-out ruins of Beirut,
all the while looking up at the sky,

aware Israeli bombs
might mistake him for Hezbollah,
might mistake him for a child,

might mistake him for a dangerous woman.
Like thousands of displaced Lebanonese,
he doesn't know where his next meal

is coming from.
While American cats eat Kibbles & Bits,
drink ice cold milk,

he cherishes a dirty pool of water.
Suddenly,in a shattered building,
a rat killed by Israeli bombs brightens his heart.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Death Of A Child

The battered body of the four-year-old
little boy or girl---
hard to tell---

killed by the Israeli five-hundred pound bomb
dropped from the air
by a pilot

jubilant over the perfection of his instruments,
proud of the technology of his country,
convinced this killing is for the betterment of his kind.

The dead child does not argue,
it just lies there dead,
unable to prove its innocence to America or Israel.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

For Lebanon A Poem by Billy The Blogging Poet

Monday, July 17, 2006

photo from billy the blogging poet
Funny How History Repeats Itself

The Luftwaffe drops its bombs
on the Beirut Airport,
buzz bombs blow up neighborhoods.

Messerschimdts fly into Syria
to prove who is god’s chosen Air Force,
panzer divisions pounce auf wierdersehen.

Storm-troopers sturm und drang
while the SS interrogates
and convinces cojones.

The Bismarck shells Lebanon
day and night.
Hitler writes Mein Kosher Kampf.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Henry’s Imagined Elegy For John

So what is this, the skyline of New York
being carried by a stork
to be born like the black Hudson

meandering twenty miles out to sea?
He’s playing a guitar made of Kleenex,
folding the neck

and the long-dead trees begin to fret.
The drums that Ringo plays
taut human skin

brought over from the jungles of Borneo.
Now the natives wish
they’d never seen a white man.

To them a song from the Sixties
only summons evil spirits,
the shaman pops you on the forehead like cops

and (keep this in mind) the cops never cure bad cops
and the shaman fans the smoke
as jungle rain begins to fall.


The Beatles keep on playing
because that’s what they were born to do,
it doesn’t matter if John’s dead,

it doesn’t matter if George is dead,
it doesn’t matter if barefoot Paul
doesn’t have a head.

Ringo and Buck Owens
admire the handy work
of a young Turk.

Yoko stands around and screams,
her breasts don’t produce milk
only creams.

And, goddamn it,
if you give peace a chance
the right wingers won’t get up to dance.

They’re fucking Nazis, you know,
and they’ll suffer the same fate
as their hero,

abandoning the surface of Berlin
to live with Dracula
while Eva Braun plays the violin

with Sergeant Schultz
and Colonel Hogan
releases termites.

Bush imagines the Luftwaffe
flying overhead
after a mission to bomb Osama.

But going after Osama is like invading
Russia in the wintertime,
if you shit in the woods you get a splinter.

Twist and shout
living in the USSR
playing the guitar.

The Beatles keep playing,
Snoop Dog keeps on baying,
Lucy’s in the sky with the family jewels.

You can’t have peace on earth
if you don’t listen to the song.
The words don’t mean a thing to words.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Feed The Parking Meter

Cicadas fly in the sky against sharp clouds,
the streets fill with thorns
inside the city parking meters,

nothing deters the scratching, plaza-like,
nothing can stop the orifice.
A jacket I wore on the stairs

from one step to the other step---
the years it took to do that.
These stones I crush within my eyes

should show you how much I love you.
Instead, you say, “A comb across the sea
leaves it with pretty hair…”

this, as you look in the mirror.
hairspray to and from the world.
But soon streetlights go off in your hands

and the city surfaces again,
cicadas nowhere in sight,
your clothes piled on my clothes.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

photo from penaajena.blogspot

El Macho

suggested by emmy's blog

Sure, he killed the vato,
spent 22 years in prison,
paid his debt to society in his mind,

funny how that
didn’t bring the dead guy back,
the wife the guy never had,

the children, the grandchildren,
oh, the very talented granddaughter
who never materialized

because someone pulled the trigger.
What the hell was the fight about,
proving one’s manhood?

protecting one’s territory?
At least, until the rich, white land developer
turned your barrio into a baseball stadium.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

How We Won The War

The war was won (chuckle)
but the dying goes on and on,
the boy next door, a woman soldier

from across the country.
We held our buddies in our arms
but they were already gone.

The victory was hailed (chuckle)
by the President aboard a Navy ship
that proclaimed, “Mission Accomplished, Pal!”

But the dying goes on and on.
Watch out for the dismembered bodies
while you celebrate.

Monday, July 10, 2006


How do you like me in pink,
how do you like me in Army boots,
how do you like a holy place run by rats?

Well, I don’t know if my shoes
can catch the fleeing, billion Chinese,
their spines float in rain.

Accept it. There is no shelter quite as purple
and I thought I saw Tafolla pay for more,
the waves polite before they crashed ashore.

How do you like me now?
A wrong turn is always wrong
unless you look from the other side.

But please note that the afternoon lashes at the ground
until the bruises can be seen from outer space.
I told you things would get this way.

Friday, July 07, 2006

The Exposed Truth

You sit in my van.
Doomed to the thunder of your thoughts,
my pants crawl inside of you.

The sea puts up its arms
to stop the blows of land,
its knuckles don’t have enough bone.

Your smile splinters like wood,
your thighs toss my face.
I used to live down the street

like the neighbor’s cat
but I can’t do it anymore. Hear it?
Even the sea is singing in my pockets now.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

ay carnal vendido

St. Paul

When Mrs. Zapata killed Mr. Zapata,
son Zapata never talked about it.
Shot to death in the living room,

near the cemetery where Pedro Acevedes Gonzales
was buried after he returned
from the Viet Nam War dead.

Or Oralia’s two brothers
shot dead in a gunfight,
what was the name of that cantina?

Henry never goes back to his hometown,
he’s outgrown frijoles, tortillas, tamales.
He wears a tie, he’s a well-respected member

of the Minnesota community.
He shovels snow, he bundles up
and he can’t wait for spring just like the whites.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Jenin Refugee Camp
After "Improvements"By Israeli Government

Golden Arches

The Israeli Army has invaded McDonalds,
tanks roll over the playscape,
this doesn’t look like Gaza, raza!

But, the gunship fires its missiles
into a car in the drive-up window, children dead,
woman barely alive…damn kid forgot the straws!

It’s all about the war on terror
and there’s bound to be an error.
The Palestinian woman takes a last breath with her bloody lungs.