Chicano Poet

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Death Of Aztlan 2012

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
I think I see Ray Gonzalez
pretending to be Mexican again.

He ain’t fooling no one.
The snow’s as white
as Gary Soto’s poetry.

The Floricantos have become
dead flowers and Chicano poetry
has been replaced by hip hop sock hops.

Even Carmen Tafolla
only writes children’s stories now.
Alurista drives a Hummer.

I don’t know what the hell I’ll do
if Lorna joins the Army,
am I destined to become Francis the Talking Mule?

Alurista justifies driving a Hummer in this way: “I feel that if we exhaust our fossil fuels as soon as possible the sooner we can return to our Amerindian way of life”. I’ll be damned if the son of a bitch doesn’t make a good point.

Why does the Mayan calendar zero out at 2012? My theory after extensive study of the texts for the last two years seems to indicate that in 2010 a giant comet appears at the edge of the solar system and is in collision course with earth. Apparently the Mayans had observed this comet and calculated that on the next pass it would strike earth. Thus the end of their calendar.

Monday, July 30, 2007


It’s tuff to write poetry with a tire iron
when your main concern
arrived by flat of. tire.

No way to write when now
how the sentence calls for
everything she said would happen of.

Friday, July 27, 2007

The Mexican Guarache

The Mexican Guarache was already underfoot
in 1856 when my great-grandfather
crossed the dry Rio Bravo

in that year of the great drought
when even stones were dying of thirst.
With the Mexican Guarache my grandfather

trekked from town to town
looking for jobs in sawmills,
cotton gins, meat markets,

you see, not all my ancestors
harvested the fields for the white man.
The Mexican Guarache spirited my father

to the mountainous skies of California
forsaking his children to work on motors,
transmissions, axles, turn signals.

And the Mexican Guarache has not let me down either,
carrying me on its back
through the sharp words that litter the land.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Poem Beginning With A Line By Robert Duncan

It is across great scars of wrong
that nothing is ever righted.
Feel the bumpiness of the tissue,

go back to when it was wide open,
the blood pouring forth,
the pain as real as real can be.

First thing we try to do
is stop the bleeding,
wrap it with pieces of cloth torn off

from a T-shirt, a skirt,
put pressure on the wound,
rush the victim to the hospital.

Yet, how can you treat a whole race?
Sure, the wound is just a scar now,
but the perpetrator appears to be our own nation.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007


You know how I can tell
when I’m right where I belong?
Moon and stars leak their essence,

the blackness of space races like a bullet,
trees made of brick and mortar
welcome the strongest wind I can think of.

The same shirt I swore yesterday
walks across the street
in a completely different Beatle haircut.

That kiss you said you could do without,
well, it’s still here waiting for you.
You may not think so,

but I’m right here, going nowhere.
Cracked sun lies in pieces like a gerund,
follow the sunbeams if you don’t believe me.

I promise not to lift up your skirt, not right away,
I promise not to wish this poem upon us,
I promise that this is where we both belong.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Ant Farm

The ants come to claim their Lorca,
bit by bit by bit they haul him off---
a procession of what must be done,

and indeed by five o’clock in the afternoon
they have finished except for the high fives.
In the distance, a bull snorts.

Only a chalk outline of Lorca’s body
remains to mark the spot
where the poet took his last breath,

exhaled his last carbon dioxide
which was quickly sucked up by the trees.
There’s nothing literary about the anthill,

no poetry can penetrate it.
The anthill predates poetry
while aiming for immortality.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

During George W's colonoscopy this morning,doctors removed five polyps that astounded the medical team because each polyp was the spitting image of Osama Bin Laden. The doctors and nurses laughed their asses off.

Friday, July 20, 2007

I have been a fan of X. J. Kennedy since the late Sixties so imagine my surprise when I was surprised by seeing some of his poems in the July/August issue of Poetry ( I won’t link to it for obvious reasons since I’m about to steal their copyrighted material ( and in a further no- no I’m going to use brackets inside brackets) so there! Xj’s first poem is Blues for Oedipus a couple of stanzas full of pus and odious. I feel like using the “N” word---nitwit.

His second poem God’s Obsequies is a very good poem for the first five stanzas. Then the dumb fuck loses the feeling, you know, that gut feeling you get when you know even in your ass that, hey, this is a good poem. He goes to God’s funeral, a ten-Cadillac affair, probably ancient Garden of Eden Cadillacs, the backseat full of the remains of Adam and Eve’s nasty love-making.

Marx was there, Karl not Groucho, preaching that if God had accepted communism he’d still be alive. Nietzsche mourned God’s death almost as much as he mourned his own small dick. Freud sat on his couch, springs only because the material had long ago been breathed into the lungs of neurotic souls. Copernicus was a prick, still insisting that the frigging sun was the center of the solar system. The French midget Jean-Paul Sartre was mumbling about Croissant-In-Itself. Way, way too deep for me.

The last nine stanzas of denouement as Richard Blackmur would say are just rehyrated semen. Not even Erica Jong would put up with that kind of procreation.

Being a two-faced (Janus without the J describes most of us) , back-stabbing asshole which I am, I just emailed Xj telling him how I loved his two poems and crying that Poetry will probably be awarded a Pulitzer or a Nobel because of his poems.

God’s Obsequies

by X.J.Kennedy

So I went to the funeral of God,
A ten-Cadillac affair,
And sat in a stun. It seemed everyone
Who had helped do Him in was there:

Karl Marx had a wide smirk on his face;
Friedrich Engels, a simpering smile,
And Friedrich Nietzsche, worm-holed and leechy,
Kept tittering all the while.

There was Sigmund Freud whose couch had destroyed
The soul, there was Edward Gibbon,
And that earth-shaking cuss Copernicus
Sent a wreath with a sun-gold ribbon.

There were Bertrand Russell and a noisy bustle
Of founders of homemade churches,
And Jean-Paul Sartre bawling “Down with Montmarte!”
There were prayer cards a dime could purchase,

There were Adam and Eve and the Seven Deadly Sins,
Buxom Pride in her monokini,
(Said Sloth, “Wake me up when the party begins”)
And Lust playing with his weenie.

Declared Martin Luther, ablaze with rancor,
“Why mourn ye, O hypocrites?
May the guilty be gored with Michael’s sword!
It’s the work of Jesuits!”

Mused the Pope on the folding chair next to me
As he mopped his expiring brow,
“Whatever will become of the See of Rome?
Ah, who’ll hire an old man now?”

I had a quick word with Jesus
In Aramaic and Greek.
“Yes,” he said, “ it’s sad. And so sudden---why, Dad
Looked uncommonly well last week.

“But we all must go sometime, I warrant,
No matter how brief our careers.
It’s a comfort to me to reflect that He
Had been getting along in years”

Then we all filed past the coffin
To pay our respects to the corpse
And the first in line gave a gasp---“ He’s done!”
He must have dropped out of the hearse!”

“Good God!” cried the undertaker,
His face like a bucket of ash,
“As sure as I’m born, I could have sworn---
If this gets in the papers I’m trash.”

I stumbled and groped out to open air,
Stared up at a blossoming tree
And the blooming thing still believed in spring,
As smug as a tree could be.

Passed a haystack. A buck-naked farmer
Was treading his doxie. She screamed.
“Not so loud,” I said, “don’t you know God’s dead?”
But they just laughed---“Who’d have dreamed?”

The sun kept pursuing overhead
Its habitual endeavor,
And the bountiful earth rolled on, rolled on,
As though it might last forever.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Wayward Son

My father moved through dooms of love,
his first wife died giving birth
to a stillborn child.

He had a son with his second wife,
my father was fifty; she was in her forties,
the son died at seventeen, motorcycle accident.

In his sixties he married
a young girl of twenty-four,
fathered a daughter, and continues to linger

in the desert of Indio
by loaves of bread and fish
in the murky waters of Salton Sea.

My father moved through dooms of love,
but two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and I, I took the unfrosted one.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

The Coelacanth

I am a coelacanth, I have always existed,
unlike you, unlike your chimp ancestors.
I have always roamed the sea,

deep, deep, for millions and millions of years.
I have seen you kill the whales,
I have seen you pollute the Seven Seas.

I have seen the seas attack your coasts,
I have seen the seas attack your cities.
I have seen the seas drown you before

and I will see them drown you again.
I am a coelacanth, I have always existed
and I will exist long after you have disappeared.

Thought to have become exinct 65 million years ago
the coelacanth still roams the seas as evidenced
by man's overfishing,and man having to resort to
dropping their nets in deeper and deeper water
to find fish.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Nothing rhymes with orange
but everything rhymes with naranja.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Complaint Lodged Against James Wright

I can hear the river complain about James Wright,
how he took the Ohio River in vain,
smeared high school boys with his own shortcomings,

fathered a son who would grow up
longing to be king.
Planting the seeds of false hope

should be a crime,
it used to be so in Crimea
where their ancestors crawled to and fro.

I take a swig and back to nature,
he tells a Sioux to his face,
the drunk Sioux doesn’t know any better, either,

having lost all of his country
to the very white man he drinks with.
Damn the words, Inca’s used knots instead.

Friday, July 13, 2007

To Lilly (Eight Months Old)
From Your Grandpa

Your big baby smile crushes my heart,
I feel tears welling up in my eyes.
You reach for my feet

because like all babies
you want to be picked up
and held.

Your little heart beats
against my arm and chest.
At the sliding glass door

you look out into the backyard
where your big brothers are running rampant.
The rat terrier scatters

from the rocks and sticks they toss.
Soon, very soon, baby girl,
you will be out there with them

and I will treasure these moments,
more precious than gold,
for as long as I live.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

The Emperor’s New Clothes

I’m on my own now, apartment hunting,
the apartment manager asks me if I’m legal.
Yes, I tell him, I’m fifty- nine.

He shakes his head and tries
to make me understand his English,
but I keep speaking Spanish.

We finally get the paperwork done.
One suitcase after twenty-six years
of honoring and obeying

just doesn’t seem right, huh?
Oh, yeah, and my treasured
notebook computer.

Sure, I get a lot of email, not from females,
mostly WWII Spam.
I hope the deadbolt keeps out memories of you.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Because The Night

Because the night belongs to lovers
I slink away with my tail between my legs.
You would think it funny, bitch.!

I gave you the best years of my life,
a son who practices medicine in Greece,
a daughter making money on Wall Street.

I gave you long vacations,
a beach home on Ocean Side Drive,
and now you say I’ve neglected you,

I don’t hold your hand anymore,
I don’t show you affection,
and all I want to do is screw you.

Because the night belongs to lovers
I’m out here with the alley cat
going through the trash cans of your heart

looking for a little love in vain.
But, I’m dumber than the beast
because I put the lids back on.

Pistol Valve

The Andrews Sisters, the Supremes, the Spice Girls. The girl group is a formula that has withstood the test of time. Today's Global Hit is a girl group. But it may be one of the oddest you've ever heard. Still, The World's Marco Werman just had to tell you about it.Pistol Valve is composed of ten young Japanese ladies. Their average age is 21. They're cute, they're talented and they rock. And when they take to the stage, you suddenly see how their schtick has made them one of the most popular bands in Japan these days. With the exception of a violinist and a DJ on turntables, the women of Pistol Valve all play brass instruments.

Pistol Valve's lyrics are kind of irrelevant. What do you expect from a song called Fo Fo? This band's just about having fun. It's been that way since the ten women formed the group in 2005. They were in high school together, playing in the orchestra and band. They know each other's habits and chops.

In concert, they occasionally dust off Eddie Cochran's rock and roll classic "Summertime Blues." Although it really doesn't matter what Pistol Valve plays. The band's tune "Flap Up Elephant" for example has an absurd title set to late 70s British ska. But who cares when one of the most surreal marching bands ever is knocking it out?

Listening to the band's music on CD, you can kind of get a sense of the energy Pistol Valve generates. It's even more palpable live. The spectacle of a Pistol Valve show doesn't fully translate to a CD. But there is at least one track that'll get the party started.

Pistol Valve's most recent CD is called "Pistol Whip." And the band's own DJ Lilya takes a whack at remixing the band's most popular song, "The Best House." It doesn't convey the same effect as seeing these ten musicians on stage with their shiny instruments and trademark pork pie hats. But you still get the picture.

You may even start to believe the line in their own press kit: "These girls are here to change the modern music scene with their hip groove and heavy sound!"


Tuesday, July 10, 2007

Feeding Frida’s Cows

The bus which crippled Frida when she was eighteen
sits rusting in a field not far from here,
surrounded by bluebonnets and cow pies.

The barbed-wire fence displays
a Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted sign.
The sky bares knuckles,

clouds club and kick wayward birds.
Buzzards rise on summer thermals,
duck out of the way of Southwest Airlines,

drop back down, retrieve a carcass.
I throw bales of hay in the back of the truck
and the dog leads the way.

The cows follow me to the hillside---
their big eyes bigger than my heart.
They can hear hot oil inside a motor.

Monday, July 09, 2007

The End Of Love

The stars floated inside of me,
light years apart, yet they remained
enclosed and trapped in me.

Comets traveled from ear to ear
until they ran out of steam,
supernovas exploded

and did not even mess up my hair.
So what makes you think
that your pounding heart

and hot body worry me?
Captain Kirk and the Klingon king
clash behind my eyebrows.

I close my eyes and crush them.
Were you inside the Enterprise? Big and
small is relative. The universe, so very small.

Saturday, July 07, 2007

If you want to see Live Earth go here:

Wanna use your iPhone as iPod
and WiFi only without buying
a two year contract with AT&T,
check it out here.

Friday, July 06, 2007

I Tol’ You

I told you it would happen, and it has.
The dolts made off with it,
locked it up in their evidence room.

Certainly, it is not made of gold
where it would uncoin itself,
dig its way back into a mountain

and the mountain shut its doors.
But, hey, anything is possible.
I lay awake at night,

weighed pros and cons, imagined this,
imagined that, ruled that out, ruled this in,
had my doubts about scenarios.

Hell, I even fingerprinted myself
just to remove my own suspicions.
But, no, I’m ok, I even passed the lie detector test.

Big old tears poured from the machine
as I described your smile.
Each lip so different from the world.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

The Smile

I found your smile on the floor,
but you are nowhere to be found.
I kneel to pick it up.

Yes, yes, darling, it is definitely your smile.
Whose smile could it be but yours?
I know I locked the door,

and the windows are all latched.
The sun and clouds have not come in
to sit on our couch,

or snoop around in your underwear drawer.
You thongs appear undisturbed.
I’m getting very upset now,

should I call the cops?
I know they will call me a person of interest,
they will not have the balls to call me a suspect.

But, I’m certain they will take your smile from me,
and I can’t give it up---it’s all I have left.
As I say this, your smile gets even bigger. Cabrona!

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Juan Tejeda

Spanish Rat Girl

The rain in Spain falls mainly from the pain,
Lorca’s shot in the back of the head with lead.
I read by daylight now, fire is forbidden at night.

That’s me in my bowler hat, rat girl,
besides the strinking violet which fights its way
out of a paper bag---Selfish plant-life, I tell you.

On TV, Hawking shouts, “There’s no safety in gravity!”
Darling, your womanhood would conquer me
this morning even as soldiers die.

But, I hope the rain in finds you well.
Gibraltar is out of the question, I hear you say,
and those fanatic Moors are making a comeback.

Monday, July 02, 2007


They say El Tapon has broken out of jail,
swimming from Alcatraz to San Francisco
with a smile across his face.

His long Indian hair dripping wet,
seals doing backstrokes next to him
and El Tapon tells them,

we’re all in the same boat, carnales,
the man is trying to keep us down,
the man is always exploiting us.

Cold and shivering,El Tapon walked proudly
through the streets of San Francisco,
walked all the way to Los Angeles,

walked all the way to Texas.
They say there ain’t a white man's jail
that can hold the heart of El Tapon.