A Serenade of Bricks
An old school love poem



Trucha!
I serenade you with homeboy poetry
and light velas to protect what is ours;

I got you in my head like bricks, that fuckin heavy, babe;
So fuckin firme—

Each nite,
See, I bust a load on your ample pecho, guey,
spell words like:
Por vida
Confessin a Feeling
Para Siempre
Con Safos, guey;

I groan.
Like the first time you go inside me and pump a crunk load between my legs, or
the moment your own hole clenches round my dick and coaxes out a hard-earned Mescan nut.

And sabes, guey, when you pressing that fat uncut pedasote behind me, nudging your cuero into my cachetes, or down on your knees, vato—
Mamandome, tragandome,
Then I scrape my scalp, spit all my loneliness
Alongside forlorn pelitos washing away
Like condemned fish into the silver hollow of drain;

As you lick the name on my neck, guey,
and grip my dick full in your palm
or your mouth; slobber my cock, vato;
lube me con tu saliva—
let me grip your skull from the sides and talk my shit—
suck that dick, guey;
eat that fuckin dick, pa;
never stop loving me, having me, knowing me—
I do the same shit for you. Neta

And I write chingos of fuckin stanzas,
all devoted to you, my most firme vato ever, guey;
my one and only—
I know you now in the memories of my muscles;
I know you from the mass of all my dreams, all my corajes, all my sufrimiento, all my god damn soledad, all my fuckin ganas and deseos and years of aguantando.
I know you. I finally fuckin know you.

Chilaquiles in a Vacant Booth on Blanco Street



where a taut-voiced waitress avoids me;

Guadalupanas huddled over other people’s mess;

noise, no traffic;

deliberation is the flat land of a cushion;

absorbed by tortillitas, threads abscond my lips;

(impalpability);

I reckon that the clang of bolts in my swollen throat has entangled itself in junctures of soft apprehension and that bothersome appetite that hushes the part of life that pines over shit at 3 am, sorts these amalgamated losses (old love, homeboys, dog, silver Azteca ring, sleep, valor, the past 2 years of my life, youth);

an elbow dug into this windowsill on which I rest my barrio sadness;

categories of unblemished disquietude and penance;

levers that will not budge and my view of the Tower from my canton on Fair Avenue;

chilaquiles trace so many ineptitudes that do not wipe away