Sunday, December 10, 2006

Servitude Poem for a Mid-December Sunday Morning

Wrist, knuckle, plethoric gasps!
I hear them, these bloated grackles, these traffic roars,
And then, it’s a
palm, scalp, straps, abundance—
57 deft twigs sprout off an oak bone
that is a hull, bullish, awful and dear
to the cobalt sky, sky, wrinkled sky
that parts like soprano throat and dog eyes
and odd elegies of
incapable limbs that squabble, huddle,

as only the bereaved and left behind may.
Suspension Poem under the Willful Command of a 52-Year Old Mexican Daddy

Armor of ink, cataclysmic!
Abrupt yank that’s a tug then a plea.
Absurd! I’ve shackled a countenance
To cheekbones and tripe. Phalanges
Tickle the underbelly of the heart like a hog
With no conscience. The thrill of a bigote!
Up here, the whole road afloat, awhirl—
I’m doting.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Portrait of a Young Donkey Lady Grooming

1,000 strokes and the mane goes magnificent!
Though not quite silk, not quite the velvet
Of a San Anto midnite—
Yolanda Del Rio, the tender perils of memory.
No shatterings, no taunts—
The allure of glass!
Once, once on that truck…
jammed in a box of jaunty jewels and lament.
Tentatively, zarzamoras dab the track of a
Jugular. The dulcet caress grasps air,
Whisking the tristesa away.
Leaves whorl, and the joy as ephemeral
As larvae and memory
and the tendrils of a once upon a burra’s sigh…

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

2 Vatos in a Vacant Parking Structure
for Dino Dinco

Belligerence and lions amok, where to tread?
This fabric of mortar and motives,
Where to head?
Impenetrability! Lineless slab, wishful as
Flanks and fluency. Los dos, guey—
An oceanic tussle of that much cielo,
An armada of euphemisms
for how alone I know these sagging roads
to go—
their toll--milestone, miles, miles
Of spine divots and splotches
Of collarbones and curt cataclysms
and that eerie immensity of highrise soledad.
The seduction of concrete!

The walls all cried out!

Friday, September 22, 2006

One Nite at Escobar Parque when Even Handball Is Not Enough

It’s the summer we were besieged by butterflies.
I dream of calsetines and tapas.
Escobar Parque. The fruit terminal abuzz, and here I
slap this pelotita as if
It on its own were at fault for all my miseries and
all my aloneness.
Tonite, I am weary and wired,
A tussle of ill muscle and mandados.
My Chucks, my chupetes.
Simon. The nopales sigh.
These butterflies are leaves gone awry.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Deficiencies (What Some Down-A$$ Vatos Esteem as Loot)

A malformed jewel! Gawk at such

Exquisite cauliflower of the ear,
A stuttering of splotches, then, lethargy.
Impeccable oddity--limps, tremors.

I loan my eye to your throat.
Photograph the adam’s apple,
pulsation of larynx as white as an eye;

Artillery, artillery!
I could splice this slate of arm,
Disclose all of this monsoon.
And if I entice
these nubs of knuckle and foot;
I feel intrusive, trifling.
I am not shatterproof.
One of my eyes dwarfs the other.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

4-Minute Homeboy Rant on Chupetones y Cuetes

The salt is mine.
Chupetones. Cuetes, guey.
Nothing but smoke, homie. You and me.
Sparks where the eyes should shine.
Instead, this molcajete of a heart
Heaving, still believing.

And where the oldest, boldest vato whispers
A plethora of peacock cuentos, who listens?
Shhhh, homie. Te cuidas. Trucha.

Once, these sparks were beautiful.
And now, the tirantes, mi pecho, my clowns--
an orchard of moretones y
Barrio corazones. My bones confess, guey.
Mis espinas, mis pies. In the blackberry nite,
this grito que tiro yo, guey--This love es de aquellas.
This love is prime.


Tuesday, September 05, 2006

3 Flores

Auspicious, guey. And the stars have all dispersed, simply.
At last! Our souvenir of oyster nimbus and Cortez prints.
Where the cusp of the heel of this continent glowers,
that shimmering pier—a wily elbow, and
the ferris wheel dead in its tracks.

See, I’ve put a box of bones at the bottom of the ocean.
For you, guey. And hastily, I’ve condoned this 5 am fortune
And I’ve honed the skill of recollecting you:
Caló voz, pompadour, 3 Flores, these firme Stacys and Frisco creases--
my own Popocoatepetl
Blurting, spurting that first inconsumable nite of syllables
And swallowed teeth, when like a newborn ghost
I stooped into the majestic womb-droop of tu ranfla and sighed…

Ay, those hours as heavy as houses now
Recede into the balding echo of this
Extraordinary freeway called nostalgia,
called elegies, called mourning.
Upraised, I will synchronize
this shit now, guey: will profess a gulp to a suspiro to
a magnificent Sureño Pendleton
I continue to own.

Bristly, brillante, guey!
Finally, I seize the prize of your eyes.
I show this box of bones at the bottom of the ocean to no one, and
There is only the enamored volcano, now, rumbling;
Only the haloed moon smolders betwixt us.
In my throat—remnants of you, guey,
the autumn crest of unbreakable panic
that what if this does not last para siempre,
as promised, this Love terminable and ghastly after all?
Insurmountable! My tripas agape.
The pomade glistens.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Planchando (and Other Things I’ve Nearly Forgotten But Am Throwing Punches Not to Forget)

3 vatos. That’s how many I can count if I reach back as far as I can into my past.

A barrio memory.

A flicker of something irresistible, unfeasible.

Slick of sudor clinging to an older homeboy’s chin. From this ferocious heat, his neck brilloso--Sur Tejas style.

A bigote. A pompadour (black as aceite). 3 Flores and a tapa.

Tirantes pulled taut as tablas over ample pechos and shoulders as broad as all of the horizon. A frajo. A conical Salem, what’s been dismissed, floating in a basin of piss like a marooned vessel. And then, the shine. Simon. The shine of Stacy’s and pomade. The shine of a down-ass homeboy sweating under a blazing Aztlan sun. Neta. The shine is what I remember.

El Abuelo [1983]
I’m ironing a shirt. Like chicharras, the starch snaps beneath the hot metal press. Creasing the cotton playera straight down the middle, it’s sudden. This flicker, this humming that emanates from the bone.

Over time, I’d forgotten this routine, the gauging of center, the creasing of a camiseta. Misplaced it somehow in the remolino of years since we lived with my Buelo after our pops jammed and my Moms had no place else to go with us and the first time I loved a vato. But it’s rheumatic, now, like bone extending itself, morphing slowly into the helix of all I struggle not to forget.

And I recall planchando, watching the bottle fill with spray, the starch boil angrily over a fierce blue kitchen flame. I ironed furiously in my past. Starching up Ben Davis and chones, even. Impressing my first vato with my ability to throw down a rowdy crease. Impeccable lines forged into cloth, sharp and precise, acute enough to splice open envy and captivate a vato’s wandering eye.

Sleepy from the Lion’s Den [1997]
Again, there’s that cone-topped cigarette. What remains of it, ash and filter, swimming in piss and following me around incessantly, it seems.

“Ey, that’s your vato?”

"Simon que si,” I respond, proud and adamant and not knowing who the fuck is putting these words out in the air.

The old vato nods. Shakes his vergota so that whatever’s left in his dick flings rambunctiously into the urinal.

Near the back of the bar this veterano strikes up platica with my vato.

I’m 19. This goes down more than ten years ago, and yet, I remember it like I could cup it in my hands right now.

They’re reminiscing, talking about life back in the day. Barrio love. Homeboy to homeboy. And there’s rules apparently. 1979, 1975. Guidelines and rituals and a fuckload of the way it should be and was, but isn’t anymore.

Sleepy’s voice pounds down into the platica like a timpani, overcomes the Nortena seeping through the walls.

They’re chuckling, nodding. Big Smokey cracks a smile, and that’s rare. In public that’s a rare occurrence. At home or when it’s just him and me, I see it, and I think oddly my own smile, now, all these years later, has imbued itself with his. Sparse, almost forced. A fissure in the folds of lip and mouth, and what results is that maybe I’ve adopted pieces of him, taken them from what we had and made them utterly my own.

That old vato was called Sleepy, and from the slump of his eyes, you might say that namesake fit him perfectly.

“Remember about the shoes?” that old vato asks. An excitement as smooth as the moon coats his voz. A mezcla of homeboy wisdom and tradicion that only a veterano, experienced in the ways of el barrio, can propound.

See, there were rules to what we did. We lived by these rules, and I had no fucking clue, up until that nite at the Lion’s Den listening to Smokey and Sleepy, of exactly why I couldn’t wipe down and shine my vato’s Stacy’s or his Florsheim’s, and why I always cleaned the tennis but not the fine lines of the wingtips and other shoes.

And how I must always stand at the edge of the bar so my vato could stand facing the door and between me and the rest of the floor. How my drink should rest directly behind and to the right of his. In the shadow of it, in its grasp.

Everyday clothes I could iron, but the fancy shit, the trajes and slacks and corbatas, shit, I wouldn’t touch those. I remember Smokey taking such pride and such care in pressing these things. I remember him humming, KRLA his accompaniment. I remember the starch. I remember the softness of a pano, silky, like the head of verga on the tip of your tongue once the skin has retracted.

I concluded that it was only out of respeto, reverence for the dead, that he never allowed me to talk down or inquire unnecessarily about his past love, an old veterano from Boyle Heights who’d succumbed to SIDA and of whom I knew very little except that Smokey, my vato, loved this man profoundly and that his death had devastated him. This understood silence, too, was a rule. One foto of this handsome man named ----- rose out of the simple altar to la Virgen de Guadalupe, which Smokey maintained devotedly in his small Lorena Street apartment. A single vela held perpetual vigil over his old love, and only now that my one and only has passed on do I truly comprehend the intricacies and potency of this devotion.

I listened, then, that wondrous nite at the Lion’s Den in Santa Ana. I saw life in eyes I had grown to love so deeply, a soft flicker of the pupil that soon kindled into what I, now, harbor in the harrowed grip of my own cora.

And that I recall was the nite we ran out of spit, and instead of lube, my vato busted out with the 3 Flores. Old school style. Shit, like that, it was magic. Big Smokey on my back, the two of us continuing el tradicion, and the colchones musing their barrio symphonies.

The Vato Whom Smokey Loved Before Me [2006]
I’ve tried to reconstruct the photograph. I can’t.

And I force myself to remember his jaw, his upturned chin that beamed the bluest resistencia and that serio-ass grin. His pompadour that shined as brilliant as a velvety Los Angeles midnight, a consummate replica of how my own vato styled his dome. And, of course, I remember the flag, blue as my baby’s heart and creased immaculately.

All these years after the fact, I contemplate this vato who impacted the way my one and only could love me, and I’m grateful for what he taught him and passed onto him all those years before I came along. And I am curious like fuck.

I have questions, chingos. And no one to answer them. Who mourns this vato? Who tends his grave? Who tells his stories and honors him now that Big Smokey’s gone? And I wonder, then, if this will happen to me when I finally pass on to el cielo. I wonder if my own ponder how Big Smokey molded me into the man I am, how I love, what I fear and forbid and follow. Who will honor Big Smokey once I’m gone? Will anyone honor me? I think of this shit sometimes as I’m planchando, creasing up a playera or stiffening these panos I, like my one and only, have devoted myself to making.

Friday, August 18, 2006

Morning Bone

I know the elegance of fists!
How glorious.
Things, things. Its virulence,
The lucid clang of butterflies and accordion wings—
Little sickles, little signs.
I’m yellow and irretractable;
To your organ, I am swift as hummingbirds
To new blooms. To your nut, I am
Voracious as jaguar and tiger shark.
And when the morning opens up like a lung,
I hoist the little bone of the heart,
Hoist it high and sigh out
This mouthful of gravel,
This deliberate grin.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Comet in the Esophagus

The jaw is an axe.
Indefatigable, monstrous;
Of a tooth, of gratified throats
And larynx,
These tepid things,
Orbs of them, orbs and gobs, guey;
They suffice, they supersede
Arithmetic. It’s barbarous.
A grip of thunderous calm.
A comet tail!

I’m shining, now, that my ear has
beheld your chin--shining…

Monday, July 17, 2006

Things Have Gone Missing

A belt, an escapulario, a photo album. Other things.

And beneath the sting that is the realization that these things did not magically vanish while you were out of town, but rather that they were taken with no respect to you, no honor of the fact that your shit, regardless how trivial or unsophisticated, does matter.

The escapulario--a Virgencita de San Juan. The photo album, a gift. The belt, a down-ass blue cord that reminds you of your first vato, because he wore one exactly this type and he’d bought you one like this at the Pomona Swap Meet in 1996, and after he died, you got this one to honor what once was, because you’d destroyed the first one when you found out what he’d done to you, because owning that belt and wearing it somehow brings a little piece of the two of you back together again. All of this--that behemoth affection you unapologetically bear for what is the past.

But having the escapulario taken from you wounded the most. The only photograph you own of your father and mother taken in September of 1976 at the Shrine to la Virgen de San Juan. Dark, almost handsome, your father towers over your mother who holds you, as an infant, firmly, like you, too, might blow away because the wind pushes her thick cascade of hair as if it were a lovely black fluid.

True, it’s a shitty photo.

True, you only display it recently.

True, it confounds you, what you feel for this flimsy-ass photograph, and you’ve contemplated taking it all down.

Your mother had told you this story, the story of how your father had not wanted to go on this trip to the Rio Grande Valle, how a plane crashed into the shrine, and you came upon this photograph incredibly, and it belonged to you simply because no one else wanted it, and now, you struggle with it.

Why do you esteem this photo when you loathe the man who is your birthfather? Why was that escapulario hanging in your bano so significant? You purchased it with your mother at the Corpus Christi Trade Center so many years back that you’ve forgotten the approximate date though you’d place it around 2001, 2002, perhaps. Sure, you could buy another one. So why does this shit matter when people have taken shit from you for so many fucking years that it’s easy, really, to blow by this like it were an infinitesimal happening, a microbe, a mote of nothing?

You theorize that it’s that you’ve tired, finally, of losing shit, of having things in your life hijacked, really, because that’s what’s been going on for all these years. Tired, ultimately, of having to relinquish dreams to the air like suspiros and moths and cells. And still, yet, there’s that piece of you that wants to talk shit and fuck a hoe up for taking your shit. It’s the machista in you, the will to “get even,” to put it down and set foul shit straight. What good is it to know in the heart of your heart the real truth of things taken when you’ve been duped and betrayed and shanked by hoodrat antics, when scandal masquerades as loyalty and years of camaradismo succumbs to a former homeboy really not giving a fuck about you or your feelings because he wanted these things, so chinga tu madre, go to hell, fuck off porque le vale madre?

Truth is the shit already hit the fan.

Truth is people fuck each other over all the time. Only you can make this the last time someone jacks your shit.

Truth is you won’t get another San Juanita escapulario. You won’t fight for that photo album or ask that Big Smokey’s belt be returned. As much as you want to throw a chingazo with your fist or your voz, you abstain. In your heart you know what’s true and what’s fraudulent, and like somebody told you so long ago, It isn’t always about letting people have it, esa. So perhaps this is the one time that you let the shit go without forfeiting what’s yours.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Untitl3d Lov3 Po3m for My B3st Hom3boy 3v3r, #120

A prying open of ribs, guey.
I swoon. The amplitude of you,
Me. An outpour, a clandestine deluge.
Privy to this eureka--upholstery, half a moon,
That 2 a.m. aloneness I deplore.

Indignant clavicle, upheaval of all my colchones--
I veer into this an avid, blustering comet, witness to
that overzealous supernova that is my heart.

Irretrievably, I’ve clamored over
Crowbar and penance.
Hammered rusty milagros to stiff pecan trunks and
Stammered, stymied as knots,
Through one deft door to
The next. And now,
Enamored, I stand erect.
Dick frenzied, heaving, believing
Ain’t nobody else gonna suck my dick, guey.
No other verga ever thumping my
Tonsil or tripas.

Loosely, I’ve tethered this heartstring
To that boulder or that tree.
Love, guey.
I lug nostalgia. Nostalgia—
that puto who beckoned me to you.
Your Namesake Grips My Neck

And it feels de aquellas. And your verga
And the Boogeyman Dreams, guey,
Flutter and flaunt amid the odd pocket
of mouth: Moths and lyrical quetzals and
Popocoateptl smoldering
on the calabaza horizon of the moon;
In my fury, I croon. I hum
oraciones, spit solace, stroke my fat shaft
Where your tongue needs to be, vato;

That abundance, then.
The luxury of trenzas; aguanto of Popo con Ixta.
Grief of a hundred trumpets, obsidian howl of
Busting my best nut—on your ojitos, your back, flat canvas
of your supple throat. Me traes prendido, guey.
My one and only. My jaino. Mi coyote!
Capable [if this world were mine]

I have gorged myself on meat.
Now, it’s merciless. This tyranny,
this snuffed appetite.
Inside, what remains is suspicious.
All tatters,
Tongues bleating, boasting conquests,
bursting at the arrogant seams.
What, then?
How the backbones arch!
Majestic and hordes of it—
Tu chorizote, tu chorizote!
Soy capaz!
our canton one miraculous morning when the frijoles go off

for all of us lonely-ass homeboys

our canton:
near dawn, drapes of my eyelids drawn—
bacon blackened a brusque beautiful
ash, then, a hot sarten of my frijoles
hissing, hissing—

the colchones majestic, your jaw drawn like the gulfo
over a flimsy pillow,
a warrior yawn but it’s more,
more like love, love
that yowling creature who’s crawled
surreptitiously up these 6 harrowing years
into the cavernous heart-hole of these
pebbly ribs
with its one little bone and stalactites, and
propped me up,
my legs fixed into our shoulder blades
like anvils and
love, love

i can hear my own throat—
slobbering, gobs, gobs of
magnificent Mescan nut

and beneath you i don’t know exactly how
i can hold the whole entire breath of the memory of all the
rivers and bahias, then, every precious cuento and
coraje my ancestors
relayed to me via lore and

de primeras—my eye on your drooling cuero,
your glistening shaft of my spit and spite,
a cuento for all cuentos, a cuento,

and that’s sal y sweat, see,
gliding lucidly
off Lupita’s ceramic pestaña, guey, guey—
love, one morning
A Silver Photo Illuminates a Room at Dawn

Cornucopia of the mouth,
Canthus of navel and foreskin—
I obsess, I must confess
When the peacock moon is obvious
as jade, and the sea, frivolous
As pearls and unlaced chuckles, and
Thick, thick! Girth of a throat and a
verga. I am noiseless and dissatisfied.
A sullen smoke rolls over itself—
Stubborn as mannequins and fleeing.
I ransack the bed sheets.
Scrutinize the envelope and each of its
Silvery photographs.
Polish my own plush throat so
You’ll love me blindingly,
categorically. My cum,
ambitious as the moon.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Carta Addr3ss3d 2 My 39 Year-Old Futur3 S3lf as 1 Inch 3v3r Clos3r 2 My 3st33m3d Status as a V3t3rano

Part 1

In 9 y3ars I will hav3 surpass3d all of my 3xp3ctations. And if my lif3 go3s according to th3 plan 1 mad3 wh3n 1 was 8, th3n, 1 should b3 d3ad by this dat3. D3composing and c3asing to wond3r how long th3y mourn3d m3, a smatt3ring of ash3s floating in th3 Gulf or th3 Rio Grand3. 1 won't liv3 b3yond 30 1'd d3cid3d--

3rd grade. 1983. Mas o m3nos. Aft3r our dad jamm3d on us, w3 stay3d with my Bu3la. W3'd b33n th3r3 a coupla yrz. My Bu3la liv3d in th3 oblong shadow of a pink church and across from a jonqu3. At nit3 w3 h3ard all th3s3 crazy-a$$ nois3s and my Momz always claim3d th3s3 whistl3s b3long3d to a l3chuza or th3 wails sh3 attribut3d to th3 3ndl3ss sufrimi3nto of La Llorona. This all scar3d th3 shit outta m3 back th3n til my hom3boy Mando point3d out th3s3 ruidos waz probably just tlaquach3's fucking in th3 junkyard. 1 waz 8, a fan alr3ady of fr33styl3, m3nudo and cholos. I wouldn't 3njoy tripas until a f3w y3ars lat3r. So, in 3rd grad3, th3 t3ach3r ask3d us to writ3 obituari3s. Dilig3ntly, 1 plann3d my d3ath for ag3 30 [a m3r3 month and an amalgamation of hours from th3 OG sit3 of this carta].

1'll di3 tragically, a murd3r, 1 convinc3d mys3lf and was instruct3d, by my t3ach3r, to r3vis3. [Now, 1 wish 1 taught at th3 sam3 school as this babosa so 1 could r3ad th3 fuck outta h3r for h3r tir3dness--talking down, low 3xp3ctations and habitual sil3ncing of poor M3scan childr3n.] So, 1 conjur3d a n3w d3ath--car accid3nt. 1 imagin3d an 18-wh33l3r smashing m3 ov3r th3 Harbor Bridg3 in Corpitos and hop3d p3opl3 who still lov3d and miss3d m3 would build a magnific3nt roadsid3 m3morial to honor m3, a languid wr3ath of blu3 plastic ros3s and a giant blu3 crucifix. A good d3ath is not what 1 want3d. 1 crav3d th3 jaws of lif3 and m3lancholy. Wh3n 3xpiring to a p3ac3ful natural d3ath isn't f3asibl3, 1'll opt to aspir3 to on3 that stops traffic ov3r th3 gr33n mouth of th3 Gulf.

1 had a r3lationship with mu3rt3 that oth3r 8 y3ar oldz at St3ph3n F. Austin 3l3m3ntary did not. 1'd alr3ady di3d onc3. At l3ast that's how my Momz t3llz th3 story of how my h3art stopp3d on th3 op3rating tabl3 and 1 flatlin3d for a matt3r of s3conds. N3ta. I don't r3m3mb3r shit about th3 3ntir3 3pisod3, 3xc3pt for th3 brittl3 m3mory of a painkill3r that 1 flashback3d to much lat3r in lif3 wh3n I shot brown on Lor3na Str33t, and th3 r3sidu3 of that hospital m3mory 3xpung3d its3lf through th3 tip of that luminous sharp. Th3 way 1 s33 it, if 1 r3ally di3d in 2nd grad3, my h3art waz only r3sisting th3 forc3d circumcision 1 was 3nduring at 7 y3ars. In d3f3ns3 of my for3skin, my h3art stopp3d and y3ll3d, "O, fuck naw, bitch3s!" Futil3ly, w3 lost that battl3 of th3 cu3ro.
L3ch3 LiBr3

for Big Smok3y
1963 - 2004

It's 3l3m3ntal. Volcanic, gu3y. Saying shit lik3 Por Vida, gu3y. Conf3ss this f33ling insid3, gu3y. 1 r3m3mb3r it--1st tim3 1 promis3d a vato por vida. 1t waz for you.

19 and sprung, gu3y. Caught up in the sin3wy spid3r's w3b of hom3boy lov3 and Prop 187. 1 wrot3 you shit, cartitas, po3mitas. You cr3ated panos for m3, 3xquisit3 squares of sabana ripp3d into j3w3ls, 3tch3d in marv3lous ballpoint and mad3 firm3 b3cuz of your lov3 and your hand and your cora and th3 stiff3n3d v3n33r of industrial floor wax. 1 r3m3mb3r, n3v3r could shak3 that kinda h3avin3ss, that profound p3dasot3 you swung my way. Shit, I wrot3 about th3 shit that matt3r3d, the prid3 and f3ar of w3aring your tru3 blu3 P3ndl3ton por la prim3ra v3z, which 1 still got (only cuz my Momz borrow3d it 1 time all th3s3 y3arz back and n3v3r gave it back until sh3 dug in h3r clos3t 1 morning and 3xtract3d it lik3 a surg3on giving m3 a liv3r or a lung). Shit, 1 put down this 1 lin3a, gu3y. Can still f33l it s33thing on th3 m3at of my tongu3, that "You sm3ll lik3 3t3rnity and Xicanismo." 1 would list3n to Jos3fa Salinas, la Ang3lita d3 la Noch3, Pow3r 106, writ3 you shit that show3d you who 1 waz and how hard 1 lov3d. 1f This World W3r3 Min3. 1 know you r3m3mb3r.

Shit, you waz th3 1st p3rson in my whol3 life who made m3 b3li3v3 that h3 gav3 a fuck about m3. La m3ra n3ta. F33lz so crunk, that 1st fuckin tim3 som31 affirms and validat3s and strok3s a vato lik3 that, mak3s it s33m lik3 th3 world aint so fuck3d up and crazy aft3r all, and wh3n th3 moon splits op3n th3 sky, and w3 finally r3alize that th3 world still is that diorama of bullshit, 3ntonc3s, w3'r3 right th3r3, sid3 by sid3, you on my back, m3 and you against th3 world, hom13. That's th3 way it was. Tu y yo. Giving corn3r, hom13. I r3m3mb3r.

And that'z what driv3s my p3n today, gu3y. S33, 1'm having th3s3 3piphani3s. And today as 1 drov3 back to San Anto from ATX, I saw it. Th3 confid3nc3 in th3 shit I wanna do with mys3lf, which som3 might call s3lf-r3speto but 1'll just call d3s3o cuz lik3 Luis Alfaro d3clar3s, "D3sir3 is m3mory." La m3rota n3ta, gu3y. I f33l that shit in my hu3zo, both th3 on3 in my ribz and 4arms wh3r3 I ink3d your nam3, and th3 1 rising up lik3 a furious cl3nching of lava and l3ch3, m3cos and your saliva, b3tw33n my thighs, tambi3n. 1t's confianza wh3r3 that s33d conn3cts con ti3rra, an imm3ns3 trust that s3nds th3 rootz 4ward, my confianza in you having my back from up abov3, not cuz it's your jal3 or cuz you ow3 m3 shit or ar3 trying to mak3 up for shit, but for the simpl3 tru3 fact that you giv3 a fuck. Guadrian ang3l? Naw. You'r3 a fuckin incubus, gu3y. The firm3 vato who com3s to m3 in su3nos and fix3s this lon3lin3ss, this guilt, th3s3 pangs of coraj3. A down a$$ v3t3rano who show3d m3, and a f3w oth3r vatos b3for3 I came along, what barrio lov3 and b3ing down for your 1 and only is all about.

pa ti, gu3y, my 1, my only
+ all th3s3 y3arz aft3r th3 fact +
por vida