Smirk, Sly Arroyo (And Eels, Too, Kneel)

I carry the village in tattoos across my arms.

--Luis J. Rodriguez

On this sleeve,

On this, the eve of 11—

On the battalion of scalps and scapegoats, I

Devour a namesake, hoard scraps, these

Iron-clad heirlooms;

Eulogy, eulogy,

Chucks, estirantes, mi tapa that once

once

Was ours—

A whisper zigzagged the moon, disguises the skies,

And I’m marooned, doomed, I

Loom, a cirrus pantheon,

I bloom;

Smirk, sly arroyo, so coarse so coaxed:

That Tuesday Circus

Encircles my girth, all my worth

Propounds what one envelope divulges that day

Si fue tu, guey. All of it there—

Jetsam, scrape, los payasitos

lithe as eels.

Servitude Poem for a Mid-December Sunday Morning

Wrist, knuckle, plethoric gasps!
I hear them, these bloated grackles, these traffic roars,
And then, it’s a
palm, scalp, straps, abundance—
57 deft twigs sprout off an oak bone
that is a hull, bullish, awful and dear
to the cobalt sky, sky, wrinkled sky
that parts like soprano throat and dog eyes
and odd elegies of
incapable limbs that squabble, huddle,

heave
as only the bereaved and left behind may.

Suspension Poem under the Willful Command of a 52-Year Old Mexican Daddy



Armor of ink, cataclysmic!
Abrupt yank that’s a tug then a plea.
Absurd! I’ve shackled a countenance
To cheekbones and tripe. Phalanges
Tickle the underbelly of the heart like a hog
With no conscience. The thrill of a bigote!
Up here, the whole road afloat, awhirl—
I’m doting.

Portrait of a Young Donkey Lady Grooming


1,000 strokes and the mane goes magnificent!
Though not quite silk, not quite the velvet
Of a San Anto midnite—
Yolanda Del Rio, the tender perils of memory.
No shatterings, no taunts—
The allure of glass!
Once, once on that truck…
jammed in a box of jaunty jewels and lament.
Tentatively, zarzamoras dab the track of a
Jugular. The dulcet caress grasps air,
Whisking the tristesa away.
Leaves whorl, and the joy as ephemeral
As larvae and memory
and the tendrils of a once upon a burra’s sigh…

2 Vatos in a Vacant Parking Structure
for Dino Dinco



Belligerence and lions amok, where to tread?
This fabric of mortar and motives,
Where to head?
Impenetrability! Lineless slab, wishful as
Flanks and fluency. Los dos, guey—
An oceanic tussle of that much cielo,
An armada of euphemisms
for how alone I know these sagging roads
to go—
their toll--milestone, miles, miles
Of spine divots and splotches
Of collarbones and curt cataclysms
and that eerie immensity of highrise soledad.
The seduction of concrete!
The walls all cried out!

One Nite at Escobar Parque when Even Handball Is Not Enough


It’s the summer we were besieged by butterflies.
I dream of calsetines and tapas.
Escobar Parque. The fruit terminal abuzz, and here I
slap this pelotita as if
It on its own were at fault for all my miseries and
all my aloneness.
Tonite, I am weary and wired,
A tussle of ill muscle and mandados.
My Chucks, my chupetes.
Simon. The nopales sigh.
These butterflies are leaves gone awry.

Deficiencies (What Some Down-A$$ Vatos Esteem as Loot)



A malformed jewel! Gawk at such
imperfections—

Exquisite cauliflower of the ear,
A stuttering of splotches, then, lethargy.
Impeccable oddity--limps, tremors.

I loan my eye to your throat.
Photograph the adam’s apple,
pulsation of larynx as white as an eye;

Artillery, artillery!
I could splice this slate of arm,
Disclose all of this monsoon.
And if I entice
these nubs of knuckle and foot;
I feel intrusive, trifling.
I am not shatterproof.
One of my eyes dwarfs the other.

4-Minute Homeboy Rant on Chupetones y Cuetes


The salt is mine.
Chupetones. Cuetes, guey.
Nothing but smoke, homie. You and me.
Sparks where the eyes should shine.
Instead, this molcajete of a heart
Heaving, still believing.

And where the oldest, boldest vato whispers
A plethora of peacock cuentos, who listens?
Shhhh, homie. Te cuidas. Trucha.

Once, these sparks were beautiful.
And now, the tirantes, mi pecho, my clowns--
an orchard of moretones y
Barrio corazones. My bones confess, guey.
Mis espinas, mis pies. In the blackberry nite,
this grito que tiro yo, guey--This love es de aquellas.
This love is prime.

C/S

3 Flores


Auspicious, guey. And the stars have all dispersed, simply.
At last! Our souvenir of oyster nimbus and Cortez prints.
Where the cusp of the heel of this continent glowers,
that shimmering pier—a wily elbow, and
the ferris wheel dead in its tracks.

See, I’ve put a box of bones at the bottom of the ocean.
For you, guey. And hastily, I’ve condoned this 5 am fortune
And I’ve honed the skill of recollecting you:
Caló voz, pompadour, 3 Flores, these firme Stacys and Frisco creases--
my own Popocoatepetl
Blurting, spurting that first inconsumable nite of syllables
And swallowed teeth, when like a newborn ghost
I stooped into the majestic womb-droop of tu ranfla and sighed…

Ay, those hours as heavy as houses now
Recede into the balding echo of this
Extraordinary freeway called nostalgia,
called elegies, called mourning.
Upraised, I will synchronize
this shit now, guey: will profess a gulp to a suspiro to
a magnificent Sureño Pendleton
I continue to own.

Bristly, brillante, guey!
Finally, I seize the prize of your eyes.
I show this box of bones at the bottom of the ocean to no one, and
There is only the enamored volcano, now, rumbling;
Only the haloed moon smolders betwixt us.
In my throat—remnants of you, guey,
the autumn crest of unbreakable panic
that what if this does not last para siempre,
as promised, this Love terminable and ghastly after all?
Insurmountable! My tripas agape.
The pomade glistens.