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.  

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.

Back When I Was a Chavalon, Fair Ave.

Georgia

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.  

Ovals

i.

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.  

ii.

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.

iii.

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.