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.

Planchando (and Other Things I’ve Nearly Forgotten But Am Throwing Punches Not to Forget)


3 vatos. That’s how many I can count if I reach back as far as I can into my past.

A barrio memory.

A flicker of something irresistible, unfeasible.

Slick of sudor clinging to an older homeboy’s chin. From this ferocious heat, his neck brilloso--Sur Tejas style.

A bigote. A pompadour (black as aceite). 3 Flores and a tapa.

Tirantes pulled taut as tablas over ample pechos and shoulders as broad as all of the horizon. A frajo. A conical Salem, what’s been dismissed, floating in a basin of piss like a marooned vessel. And then, the shine. Simon. The shine of Stacy’s and pomade. The shine of a down-ass homeboy sweating under a blazing Aztlan sun. Neta. The shine is what I remember.


El Abuelo [1983]
I’m ironing a shirt. Like chicharras, the starch snaps beneath the hot metal press. Creasing the cotton playera straight down the middle, it’s sudden. This flicker, this humming that emanates from the bone.

Over time, I’d forgotten this routine, the gauging of center, the creasing of a camiseta. Misplaced it somehow in the remolino of years since we lived with my Buelo after our pops jammed and my Moms had no place else to go with us and the first time I loved a vato. But it’s rheumatic, now, like bone extending itself, morphing slowly into the helix of all I struggle not to forget.

And I recall planchando, watching the bottle fill with spray, the starch boil angrily over a fierce blue kitchen flame. I ironed furiously in my past. Starching up Ben Davis and chones, even. Impressing my first vato with my ability to throw down a rowdy crease. Impeccable lines forged into cloth, sharp and precise, acute enough to splice open envy and captivate a vato’s wandering eye.


Sleepy from the Lion’s Den [1997]
Again, there’s that cone-topped cigarette. What remains of it, ash and filter, swimming in piss and following me around incessantly, it seems.

“Ey, that’s your vato?”

"Simon que si,” I respond, proud and adamant and not knowing who the fuck is putting these words out in the air.

The old vato nods. Shakes his vergota so that whatever’s left in his dick flings rambunctiously into the urinal.

Near the back of the bar this veterano strikes up platica with my vato.

I’m 19. This goes down more than ten years ago, and yet, I remember it like I could cup it in my hands right now.

They’re reminiscing, talking about life back in the day. Barrio love. Homeboy to homeboy. And there’s rules apparently. 1979, 1975. Guidelines and rituals and a fuckload of the way it should be and was, but isn’t anymore.

Sleepy’s voice pounds down into the platica like a timpani, overcomes the Nortena seeping through the walls.

They’re chuckling, nodding. Big Smokey cracks a smile, and that’s rare. In public that’s a rare occurrence. At home or when it’s just him and me, I see it, and I think oddly my own smile, now, all these years later, has imbued itself with his. Sparse, almost forced. A fissure in the folds of lip and mouth, and what results is that maybe I’ve adopted pieces of him, taken them from what we had and made them utterly my own.

That old vato was called Sleepy, and from the slump of his eyes, you might say that namesake fit him perfectly.

“Remember about the shoes?” that old vato asks. An excitement as smooth as the moon coats his voz. A mezcla of homeboy wisdom and tradicion that only a veterano, experienced in the ways of el barrio, can propound.

See, there were rules to what we did. We lived by these rules, and I had no fucking clue, up until that nite at the Lion’s Den listening to Smokey and Sleepy, of exactly why I couldn’t wipe down and shine my vato’s Stacy’s or his Florsheim’s, and why I always cleaned the tennis but not the fine lines of the wingtips and other shoes.

And how I must always stand at the edge of the bar so my vato could stand facing the door and between me and the rest of the floor. How my drink should rest directly behind and to the right of his. In the shadow of it, in its grasp.

Everyday clothes I could iron, but the fancy shit, the trajes and slacks and corbatas, shit, I wouldn’t touch those. I remember Smokey taking such pride and such care in pressing these things. I remember him humming, KRLA his accompaniment. I remember the starch. I remember the softness of a pano, silky, like the head of verga on the tip of your tongue once the skin has retracted.

I concluded that it was only out of respeto, reverence for the dead, that he never allowed me to talk down or inquire unnecessarily about his past love, an old veterano from Boyle Heights who’d succumbed to SIDA and of whom I knew very little except that Smokey, my vato, loved this man profoundly and that his death had devastated him. This understood silence, too, was a rule. One foto of this handsome man named ----- rose out of the simple altar to la Virgen de Guadalupe, which Smokey maintained devotedly in his small Lorena Street apartment. A single vela held perpetual vigil over his old love, and only now that my one and only has passed on do I truly comprehend the intricacies and potency of this devotion.

I listened, then, that wondrous nite at the Lion’s Den in Santa Ana. I saw life in eyes I had grown to love so deeply, a soft flicker of the pupil that soon kindled into what I, now, harbor in the harrowed grip of my own cora.

And that I recall was the nite we ran out of spit, and instead of lube, my vato busted out with the 3 Flores. Old school style. Shit, like that, it was magic. Big Smokey on my back, the two of us continuing el tradicion, and the colchones musing their barrio symphonies.


The Vato Whom Smokey Loved Before Me [2006]
I’ve tried to reconstruct the photograph. I can’t.

And I force myself to remember his jaw, his upturned chin that beamed the bluest resistencia and that serio-ass grin. His pompadour that shined as brilliant as a velvety Los Angeles midnight, a consummate replica of how my own vato styled his dome. And, of course, I remember the flag, blue as my baby’s heart and creased immaculately.

All these years after the fact, I contemplate this vato who impacted the way my one and only could love me, and I’m grateful for what he taught him and passed onto him all those years before I came along. And I am curious like fuck.

I have questions, chingos. And no one to answer them. Who mourns this vato? Who tends his grave? Who tells his stories and honors him now that Big Smokey’s gone? And I wonder, then, if this will happen to me when I finally pass on to el cielo. I wonder if my own ponder how Big Smokey molded me into the man I am, how I love, what I fear and forbid and follow. Who will honor Big Smokey once I’m gone? Will anyone honor me? I think of this shit sometimes as I’m planchando, creasing up a playera or stiffening these panos I, like my one and only, have devoted myself to making.

Morning Bone



I know the elegance of fists!
How glorious.
Things, things. Its virulence,
The lucid clang of butterflies and accordion wings—
Little sickles, little signs.
I’m yellow and irretractable;
To your organ, I am swift as hummingbirds
To new blooms. To your nut, I am
Voracious as jaguar and tiger shark.
And when the morning opens up like a lung,
I hoist the little bone of the heart,
Hoist it high and sigh out
This mouthful of gravel,
This deliberate grin.

Comet in the Esophagus


The jaw is an axe.
Indefatigable, monstrous;
Of a tooth, of gratified throats
And larynx,
These tepid things,
Orbs of them, orbs and gobs, guey;
They suffice, they supersede
Arithmetic. It’s barbarous.
A grip of thunderous calm.
A comet tail!

I’m shining, now, that my ear has
beheld your chin--shining…

Things Have Gone Missing

A belt, an escapulario, a photo album. Other things.

And beneath the sting that is the realization that these things did not magically vanish while you were out of town, but rather that they were taken with no respect to you, no honor of the fact that your shit, regardless how trivial or unsophisticated, does matter.

The escapulario--a Virgencita de San Juan. The photo album, a gift. The belt, a down-ass blue cord that reminds you of your first vato, because he wore one exactly this type and he’d bought you one like this at the Pomona Swap Meet in 1996, and after he died, you got this one to honor what once was, because you’d destroyed the first one when you found out what he’d done to you, because owning that belt and wearing it somehow brings a little piece of the two of you back together again. All of this--that behemoth affection you unapologetically bear for what is the past.

But having the escapulario taken from you wounded the most. The only photograph you own of your father and mother taken in September of 1976 at the Shrine to la Virgen de San Juan. Dark, almost handsome, your father towers over your mother who holds you, as an infant, firmly, like you, too, might blow away because the wind pushes her thick cascade of hair as if it were a lovely black fluid.

True, it’s a shitty photo.

True, you only display it recently.

True, it confounds you, what you feel for this flimsy-ass photograph, and you’ve contemplated taking it all down.

Your mother had told you this story, the story of how your father had not wanted to go on this trip to the Rio Grande Valle, how a plane crashed into the shrine, and you came upon this photograph incredibly, and it belonged to you simply because no one else wanted it, and now, you struggle with it.

Why do you esteem this photo when you loathe the man who is your birthfather? Why was that escapulario hanging in your bano so significant? You purchased it with your mother at the Corpus Christi Trade Center so many years back that you’ve forgotten the approximate date though you’d place it around 2001, 2002, perhaps. Sure, you could buy another one. So why does this shit matter when people have taken shit from you for so many fucking years that it’s easy, really, to blow by this like it were an infinitesimal happening, a microbe, a mote of nothing?

You theorize that it’s that you’ve tired, finally, of losing shit, of having things in your life hijacked, really, because that’s what’s been going on for all these years. Tired, ultimately, of having to relinquish dreams to the air like suspiros and moths and cells. And still, yet, there’s that piece of you that wants to talk shit and fuck a hoe up for taking your shit. It’s the machista in you, the will to “get even,” to put it down and set foul shit straight. What good is it to know in the heart of your heart the real truth of things taken when you’ve been duped and betrayed and shanked by hoodrat antics, when scandal masquerades as loyalty and years of camaradismo succumbs to a former homeboy really not giving a fuck about you or your feelings because he wanted these things, so chinga tu madre, go to hell, fuck off porque le vale madre?

Truth is the shit already hit the fan.

Truth is people fuck each other over all the time. Only you can make this the last time someone jacks your shit.

Truth is you won’t get another San Juanita escapulario. You won’t fight for that photo album or ask that Big Smokey’s belt be returned. As much as you want to throw a chingazo with your fist or your voz, you abstain. In your heart you know what’s true and what’s fraudulent, and like somebody told you so long ago, It isn’t always about letting people have it, esa. So perhaps this is the one time that you let the shit go without forfeiting what’s yours.

Untitl3d Lov3 Po3m for My B3st Hom3boy 3v3r, #120


i.
A prying open of ribs, guey.
I swoon. The amplitude of you,
Me. An outpour, a clandestine deluge.
Privy to this eureka--upholstery, half a moon,
That 2 a.m. aloneness I deplore.

Indignant clavicle, upheaval of all my colchones--
I veer into this an avid, blustering comet, witness to
that overzealous supernova that is my heart.


ii.
Irretrievably, I’ve clamored over
Crowbar and penance.
Hammered rusty milagros to stiff pecan trunks and
Stammered, stymied as knots,
Through one deft door to
The next. And now,
Enamored, I stand erect.
Dick frenzied, heaving, believing
Ain’t nobody else gonna suck my dick, guey.
No other verga ever thumping my
Tonsil or tripas.

Loosely, I’ve tethered this heartstring
To that boulder or that tree.
Love, guey.
I lug nostalgia. Nostalgia—
that puto who beckoned me to you.