Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Chorizo and Clouds

This morning’s chorizo blackens, 
and these eyelids haven’t even slid open
enough to admonish the date--

In the shower, the milk has soured.
The soap hardens in the cold.
December isn’t too far off.
Fantastically, the steam lifts me 
to a world of clouds, 
wisps and tatters and heavenly shit, 
and I climax enthusiastically with images 
of you and a younger version of me 
trekking among these clouds, 
away from these splintery walls 
with holes pushed through, 
this hole in the unfinished floor that once 
nearly swallowed me and two dogs whole.  

At your seat, I’ve arranged a plate.  
Orange, now, from the egg.
The corn already has mixed itself in
crisply.  A long time ago, you would have
kissed me and smiled that half-curl of the mouth
you’re known for, then, 
put your hands up underneath the peel 
of my shirt to feel my heart 
before you ate.  I would have breathed 
confessional paragraphs into your neck.  
Yes, that was a long-ass  time ago, 
you’d likely say.  

Friday, November 13, 2009

Birds and Buicks

and there’s this road,
birds on it
blocking bikes and buicks

birds gouging pits
in asphalt, pits like sockets
like craters

like searching worms out
of rock;  and there’s
this homeboy

I used to go to
when my own sick birds
dig into those

things I’ve offered 
other vatos only to 
have them dismissed;

things like a ride
from county one 
night after a warrant got

served after a fight
after throwing my
ass outta my own house

onto concrete and steps
and that terrible scratch
etched into the back

where I slid into a nail
that burst right outta the floor;
there’s this road

where a cruise 
is the next best thing for
a vato with too much alone

time, too much attachment
to what was his in the past;
this road where a bird preys
upon a dead thing left between
F150s, sun, and traffic cones.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Back When I Was a Chavalon, Fair Ave.

Sunday, November 08, 2009

for J.

And in the afternoon, the hardness 
ascends from thighs.  And this is a time 
for telling what’s here amongst us four.
Within the growing and these ventricles that 
Surrender their girths to throats and tendencies--

I hold his cap to my mouth,
And my chin winces. 
Eyes wish this would last—this 
Don’t go.  Don’t go.  Repeating itself
Beneath the root of the tongue 
as if the syllables
Alone could manufacture time.

This is it, then:  the bone’s prayer.
Lungs, lungs.  
My face has his scent.  
Into a Fold 

Of dick skin, I pressed a murmur and 
imagined a big pearl.
Alive and warm in my hand
And then into the passage of throat. 
Gloating, it swam.

A December passed over me like jetsam and rockets.  
Armada of nimbus and space ships, 
they came and lifted my big pearl.

Pearl of all the ocean.
Pearl of the Gulf and the Nueces and 
the arroyo just east of the Courts where I come
to remember things.  

His ear wasn’t there but he could hear me.
From my toes that grabbed at planks of flooring--
vibrations, an echo, a shoe marooned at the 
far end of the room.  

Sitting on his belly, I rock.  
I, too, can give pearls,
Which I do:  a messy string of them encased in 
Chest hair and cachete.  

I pant.  I squat.  I feign I would 
Not miss the man or my pearl.
A melody.  I dug for one that I could hum or 
tap or suck on and that would occupy me 

For the night.  Toothless giggle.  
Stare at the tangle of pearls in my palm.  
Smug ruthless crinkle of it:  
inhabitable, drying.  


We creep up softly to the monte obscured by
Flores Street and freeways.

Urban comets whiz above.  Taillights 
and the spectacle of a Tower watching out 

for us.  

I could change shit for you.

Stay.  Dig the meaty parts of your calves 
Into my shoulder blades.  Sigh.  

Press your feet into my throat.  I could make
Ovals in the sod.  Endlessly.  Irrevocable

impressions, tattoos and toes.

I could make it so that you’re the only one.
Could conjure an arroyo to make mud that

will mask our tire troughs and raise the
earth-scent.  The 10 has torn hapless gaps 

into this photograph: 

atop my bike, this colchón and my
Southside longing.