Sleepy and the Rock, 1993

a memory I lost but now have found

“See this rock.”  Perched between stout fingers, 

a homeboy shows off the rock, and I check the shit out 

like it’s fucking magic what he holds in the

sandpaper that is a hand.

“This rock ain’t shit,” he goes.  

“Til I put my arm behind it, guey.  

And then, shit, watcha.  

Watch what this little bitch can do.”

Intrigue flutters.  Wild, gilded eyes.  

I’m doubled over.  A day before Valentine's.

Torpedoing and a soft whistle 

across overgrown yard and a gate that won’t shut, 

shattering a toothless window to an old house 

that’s empty now except for the imprints of tecatos 

who shoot endless brown there and 

fuck and nod off and stave off life.

Now, I’m watching that rock.  

Seeing it spin.  Watchando.  

Huffing, still.  

Sleepy grabbing on me and dissolving.

Seeing it bring shit down, he goes,

“Life fucks up fast, manito.”  

I ain’t huffing no more.  

The sting that overwhelmed my lungs dissipates.  

I’m following a homeboy who has sped ahead 

of me on a rigged-up ten-speed, a homeboy who

swallows from a tallboy Schaefer as he pedals

and will put a mouth on me in the dreams that keep

me company when everyone else has failed.

The sun is hot like fuck.

The eyes of la vecina fisgona swarm around me, and 

the trains howl like dogs.

My breathing gaffs.  Desire stifles amongst so many 

locusts and then rises up again like perhaps maybe

when Sleep invites me to kick back at his pad, 

this shit might really happen, 

all the cards fall into place finally.

But they don’t.  

And instead, I’m here chasing, smashing

open another beer I don’t want,

always chasing the shit that I can never get.