Poem for a Shirtless Homeboy Whom I Catch Scoping Me out at Charlie’s
Austin, Tejas (a long-ass time ago)


And now, how muscles have stretched
and hardened,
Worn taut from eyes,
My eyes, which stiffen lats and obliques and
I could place my tongue like lips that lock
Onto his Mexican lips and his thick cock, and
I am full of these types of fat sayings
That fold slowly across my chest like arms
And black tattoos;
Indignities clump, and my heart will flail
Bravado and a midnight meeting that warms
The lungs. “That’s what I like,” he goes as
Friends pry him away.

Stray 20s on Culebra



Crouch underneath a Crown Victoria that’s
Crippled as fuck; suspended on cement blocks,
mid-surgery, spokes and spindles and this
nickel chrome that won’t show its keyhole
magic or give what
I’ve known about the cone entering from only a backside,
Passed on by Big Spooky, my old camarada from La Puente,
Who passed the shit onto me like an heirloom jale
confessing the accumulation of
loads and loads of it,
this shit cooped up like flocks of
pelicanos and postponed exonerations
in tire shop garages while electrical wires go soft, stilted
as asphalt and burned spoons and lilacs;

it’s the kites that fetter me
so faithfully to images of Dayton chrome and 85 Regals and chases.