II

 

Mexican Heaven

St. Peter is a Mexican named Pedro,

but he’s not a saint. Pedro waits at the gate

with a shot of tequila to welcome

all the Mexicans to heaven,

but he gets drunk

& forgets about the list.

all the Mexicans walk into heaven,

even our no-good cousins who only

go to church for baptisms & funerals.

 

Ode to Cheese Fries

golden goo of artificial delicious,

what probably lines

my stomach with sunlike grease for weeks after

eating the yellow

so yellow it could only be manufactured. so what

if it’s fake?

as much cheese content as Apple Jolly Ranchers—

i come from

a city of foreclosure foreclosure empty lot. city

where we got

dollar-store-brand action figures—so what

my Wolverine didn’t

have retractable claws or the right uniform?

so my joy

at Pano’s my favorite fried-everything spot—

the cashier’s voice

a box of Newports filtered through throat—

i didn’t know

i would miss this home where the patties

come from freezers

and maybe not ever from cows or even animals—

i live in

a city that brags about its organic fair-trade

quinoa-fed beef—

of course i miss the ’90s pop playing in the restaurant—

the Backstreet Boys

live in Cal City where the band never breaks up,

the song plays

on repeat as the cashier takes my order, say it with me—

cheese fries please—

give me everything artificial including cardboard fries,

the bread fresh

out of some Walmart cloning experiment—throw in

a cold pop—

i want a joy so fake it stains my insides &

never fades away

 

I Wake in a Field of Wolves with the Moon

i wake in a field of wolves with the moon

howling & smack my lips.

i know no love without teeth

& have the scars to remember.

trace those scars & you have a map

to my heart. open carefully. i will not die.

i know i have teeth of my own.

there are stories about men who leave

a trail of corn husks & growing bellies

i know my reflection when i see it.

i wake among the wolves

licking dirt from their paws & know

who i am when the wolves don’t attack me.

when they call me hermano & want to dap

me up. send me a full moon.

all the princesses get their crowns

burped up. you can’t find love

in those stories. let my love be a wolf.

i’ll lay my head on a bed of her teeth.

i know my love knows when to bite.

 

Note: Rose that Grows from Concrete

the inspirational slogan wants you to believe you are a rose, but consider the emperor’s muddy boot. you could be a rose or concrete. the record suggests the boot sees both as a welcome mat. we need a new metaphor. a seed is better. but when seeds grow, who gets the fruit? fuck it. be a rusty nail. make the emperor howl.

 

Ode to Cal City Basement Parties

lights off & even

your closest homies

unfamiliar. under

ground. under

the influence.

lovers tag walls

the deep blue

of Levis. hands on

hips. hips on hips. red

Solo cups. smoke hides.

touch reveals.

there are no news cameras

& your parents off

at impolite bars, so

no one watches while you

take the light glittering

off the disco ball

& paint yourselves

brand new & shining.

 

Not-Love Is a Season

not-love is a season.

i drank fire. a dozen blankets

couldn’t keep me from shivering.

winter is an unavoidable fact.

unless you’re from Cali &

i don’t trust people who don’t know

the freeze of loneliness. the dead

branches abandoned

by the birds still chasing summer.

my homies all telling me

i’ll meet someone else. like i want

to meet someone else. my wound deep.

but mine. already time working to ease

my grip on my hurt. i know misery

thaws. the frozen branches a blank canvas

for a brush of green. the flowers brilliant

& there like they never left. like I said,

i don’t trust people unfamiliar

with love. how it begins before the sun

whispers a hot word. when the only light

received is artificial & polite as a light bulb.

how love is a season that begins like a leaf.

when in the dead winter a tree dreams

of a crown it will one day wear.

 

Mexican Heaven

all the Mexican women refuse to cook or clean

or raise the kids or pay bills or make the bed or

drive your bum ass to work or do anything except

watch their novelas, so heaven is gross. the rats

are fat as roosters & the men die of starvation.

 

On My Mom’s 50th Birthday

my mom puts on makeup & she is not my mom,

not a mom at all, she is admiring how good

the red lipstick looks on her lips, she is in the ugly

bathroom with the rusty faucet that spits

cold water in the cold country she adopted,

& for what—tonight the what ifs melt

with the snow & it is not winter,

tonight, my mom is not my mom,

nor does she know any children,

tonight kids cry on someone else’s bed, she is not

married, tonight her mom still nags her

about finding a man, husband

is a stain on a collar, tonight i watch my little brothers

& make dinner for my dad, i am removing my mom

from our house—god willing,

we will not destroy it—i am removing

my mom & placing her in a club in Guadalajara

with her sisters & sisters are as close to love

as she wants to be right now, dance the only work,

i am unbraiding our DNA, unknotting our lives,

so for the next few hours she will not worry

about me & my brothers, so for the next few hours

all she will have to worry about is the color of her lips

and the handsome men admiring them.

 

Hecky Naw

you can take the boy

but the hecky naw stays

announcing his nation

of origin shame i was

ashamed the first time

i left home i kept you

under my throat

your song a basement

juke party i was born

south side juking language

i thought i left that party

dreamt myself in an

Armani suit in an

Armani room with many

Armani suits

isn’t that what Harvard

was supposed to buy

where the border ended

in a boardroom my parents

proud for once

i thought i was gone

& might come back

on some save-the-hood type shit

but the hood isn’t

a garment you can toss off

it’s a skin hecky naw

my classmates

giving me the look

they give lab rats

before they hit the switch

that shocks them

hecky naw

if my professors say

one more thing about

Chicago i might heck

-le them or throw eggs

hecky naw i never

could scrape myself white

hecky naw

you the music i bumped

in the night

in my headphones

when i wanted

to hear my one true name

 

Ode to Scottie Pippen

Scottie swatting Charles Smith

into his concrete gym shoes,

i loved you best of all the Bulls.

i was short & chubby & jumped

like i carried baby elephants

in the pockets of my gym shorts.

Scottie jumping over New York

skyscrapers, serving Mars a bucket

of shove it, a courtside seat

to watch his team bend the knee.

underneath my heart, i carry

a moldy factory manufacturing sky.

Scottie, you made it look easy,

the way your legs ate air,

found every escalator up.

i was watching your game.

working my own factory

trying to build my way out.