Enuf

used to think I was not American enuf

used to think I would never be American enuf

i never thought of it

was in it & out again

used to think How could I ever dress that way

did you ever meet Sadie Hawkins or Tennessee Ernie Ford

used to think Where am I Who am I — a bit too much

used to live on the outside of where you lived

used to throw stones at your window on the way to catechism

used to think I was always on borrowed time

used to knock on your door every day but no one answered

on Halloween I walked with thousands with an empty bag

& when I rolled back to apartment #2 at 2044 Mission Street

I delighted

in my hobo torn-pants get-up with my Shinola sideburns

my motion was always angled in the opposite direction

was a green-yellow-brown Mexican in a Greyhound bus

you ever noticed green-yellow-brown Mexicans at the depot

was every color & tone & texture except White or Brown

was Indian somewhere in Central Mexico on the outside

of Tepito the deepest barrio in Mexico City where

no one asked questions

was an expert at signing my mother’s Alien Registration Card

was an unlicensed professional window shopper

— can you identify the contours and chromatics of a Bulova

a Hamilton a Wittenhauer an Elgin a Longines

my hobbies included watching people go places

lose myself on Indio Street in San Diego

used to think suits were impossible — still do

clip-ties were doable used clothes most appropriate

i found ecstasy in listening to mountain wolves

outside our trailer on the outskirts of the other side of the tracks

on the other mesa of the road few passed

the wolves sounded as if water was near or

as if they were spiraling out from the moon

used to think I was not American enuf

not even in the welfare offices where I employed

superb translation skills for my mother

was a city wonderer a believer in magic a kid who

pierced his left eye throwing scissors at nothing

noticed a colt being born tearing through the life-curtain

my mother wrote notes about my daily progress

into a tiny address book the color of lipstick

the size of three postage stamps

this is not a poor-boy story

this is a pioneer story

this is your story

America are you listening

my father walked to the ocean waters with a jar

in his hand bowed down & filled it & said

“This will heal you”

i did not know how to melt how to fall into another body

spoke a language you could not hear

listened to stories you never told

sang songs you did not sing

had my own way of tracking the sun

used to think I was not American enuf

was filled with dreamy maps of my grandmother Juanita ambling

to Júarez during the Mexican Revolution & my uncles Roberto

Chente & Jeno lacing up their Army leggings at Fort Bliss in 1919

my mother twangin’ a guitar without a stage or land to sing

used to think I was not American enuf

now it is the other way around