(no subject)
So I am having a hard time trying to find the perfect poem(s) to read August 7th. Any suggestions? Let me know what to read. I was thinking of just taking a crap on stage instead.
Here's a funny one:
No One Knows that I’m Mexican
No one knows that I’m Mexican.
Even Mexicans can’t tell. It’s a secret.
Going to Mexican bars, the juke box blaring
Vicente Fernandez gets turned down, the pool
games are paused and I get dirty looks from
everyone, the painters, the gangsters,
the cowboys - judgments in their hearts.
The bartenders avoid me; I am discriminated
against for being white and in the wrong
place. When the bartenders finally speak,
it’s broken English and I answer back in Spanish;
and they are always astonished, wondering how
this gringo can speak such good Spanish,
es good, es good, hablas bien!
But they still prefer speaking English
to me and they still resent me for figuring out
their secret language so I always give up and
answer back in English, wishing my skin darker,
my ethnicity more obvious.
Going to Mexican restaurants, going
up to the counter, the short dark girl with
the apron says hi, redy tu oder? and I’m
jealous of her skin tone and I say, si
and give my order: dos tacos de carne
adobada con una horchata, grande.
And she is shocked, relieved but shocked.
The cooks in the back say mira, el gringo
habla bien as they piss in my beans.
Habla Bien is my new name.
No one knows that I’m Mexican.
Even Mexicans can’t tell. It’s a secret.
But I’ve been in jail and I own a pair of
Nike Cortez and used to play soccer and
I was apart of the anti-187 walkouts in the
90’s while I was in Jr. High but
I did get a D in Spanish class, twice.
When the cops pull me over and write me a
ticket they look at the picture and the last
name on my ID, to determine my race
and check off the appropriate box on the ticket,
never getting it right, checking off Caucasian/white.
My name is Luis Alberto Rivas,
not Lewis or Louis or Louise.
My parents came from a city called Jerez
in a state called Zacatecas in Mexico.
I was born in Los Angeles but I was never
injected with Caucasian blood.
I want to be cremated when I die;
and as I burn, the proper skin tone
will finally show itself and I will die
darker and truer.
Here's a DEEP one:
To the Black Bum Missing an Eye on the Corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights that I Didn’t Give any Change to -
I am sorry
for not giving you
the 86 cents
I had when I
saw you
black and old
standing, shivering
without an eye
holding up
the wet piece
of cardboard
with illegible
writing
on the corner
of Sunset and
Crescent Heights
but the light
was green
and rush hour traffic
in Hollywood
is like an
insane and retarded
conveyor belt
and when the lady
in the SUV
stopped
at the same
green light
and gave you
some money
my guilt
was replaced
with something
else that stayed
with me throughout
the drive home
from work
going up Laurel Canyon
with the 5pm sun
breaking through
the smoky clouds
above the
San Fernando Valley
mountains
like a frozen explosion
I wish more than
anything
that you were
in my driver’s seat
looking at
this
seeing where
the rain is
falling and where
the rain is heading
sharing this
moment where
the only thing
that exists is
the pure essence
of humanity’s
potential
passing
Mulholland Dr
approaching Ventura blvd
the rain has
stopped
and I see
a tall man
walking on the sidewalk
who just dropped
a pack of cigarettes
and another man
following closely
notices and
bends down
reaches for the pack
and hands it
back to the
unexpecting man
shocked by
this random act
of kindness
I look up
and see a brighter
red outlining
the shapes
of clouds
slowly moving
over the valley
and I think that
something is trying to
communicate an idea
of oneness
of how everything
from the black bum
missing an eye
to the lady
in the SUV
to the guy
handing someone back
a pack of cigarettes
to me and you
and us and them
how we are all
connected somehow
for some reason
and
in moments
like these
I could believe
in us.
Here's a funny one:
Hemingway at Los Angeles Valley College
we were being taught
how to read
Hemingway
because there was
a lot of metaphor
and the ambiguity of
interpretation needed
the proper guidance
evidently
“the mountains
when he writes about
them
it means strength”
and we all
wrote it down
in our notebooks
waiting for an
elaboration of context
got none
and highlighted
“strength”
“ok, and a river
means rebirth
a sort of baptism”
we waited again
and highlighted “rebirth”
“the night is uncertain
and death is
more likely to
come then
so Hemingway’s
protagonist will
not sleep until
sunrise
when he feels
safer”
we took notation
circled “death”
with our highlighters
“Rain means sadness
that something bad
is happening or
will happen”
“sadness” -check
we nod
“the main character
will out drink
all the others and
not get drunk
it’s a sign of
endurance
strength
drunkenness is foolish
and weak”
the professor took
a quick break
to suck on his
Starbucks Frappuccino
topped with Caramel
and whip cream
Venti size
he looked around
the classroom
remembering Viet Nam
caught sight of
the sliced
bright afternoon sun
coming in through
the window blinds
stretching out
on our desks
we were all looking
at our notes
underling
highlighting
awaiting the next
rehearsed line
in the script
he had both hands
on the podium
laying limp
thinking
about the moist
jungle leaves
of Ben Hoa
the distant gunfire
his fat head shining
with tiny beads
of sweat
seemingly
out of breath
and too embarrasse
to go on
Here's a couple DEEP maybe funny ones:
In El Salvador
in El Salvador
there are heavily-armed
security guards in front
of Burger King
Honda dealerships
and luxury hotels
while the stench from
a rotting run-over dog
on the street saturates
the hot, tropical air
and the shoeless kids
that perform fire-blowing
and juggling at street
intersections smell this
and debate on whether
they could eat it without
getting sick or die
but eventually decide
to keep hustling for
spare change, their feet
so black from walking
on the asphalt that they look
like they’re wearing black
dress socks
in El Salvador
it is considered a luxury
to hang out in shopping
malls occupied by
transnational companies
that do not need to
worry about U.S. federal
minimum wage laws
paying Salvadorans
$10 a day - what some
Californians make an hour
their only worry being
about the burgers
the new Civic models
the new HD widescreen
in the lobby of the
American hotel
their automatic rifles
and shotguns always ready
and loaded, aiming
at the heads of desperate
hungry, shoeless kids
asking for spare change
threatening the quiet peace
of a country’s genocide.
Aliens Who Barely Exist
_________ barely existed.
_________ wasn’t a US citizen,
not even human; _________ was
an illegal alien who had to change
his name many times; _________
had to lie about his address;
_________ had to lie about his birth
date; _________ had to change his
hair many times - from parting it
on the side, to slicking it all back,
to even shaving it off completely.
_________ was an ex-guerilla
in the civil war of El Salvador
back in the 80’s, and would never
be allowed to become a US citizen;
_________ saw friends die and kill,
shouting REVOLUCIÓN O MUERTE;
and after surviving something he
didn’t except to he was faced with
the ex-guerilla’s ultimate dilemma:
what now?
_________ served a few prison
terms; _________ was deported and
came back again with a new name, a
new haircut; _________ could only
find work in warehouses, factories,
bath houses and porno shops, places
that didn’t mind hiring aliens who
barely existed.
and _________ will keep running
and working, barely existing the entire
time, only finding peace in the
thought that wherever he is buried
his tombstone will finally reveal
his true birth date and maybe even
his true name.
As I Wonder Why My Kitchen Knives are Missing
as i wonder why my kitchen
knives are missing, where
have they gone to, as i see
the sun setting in my rear-
view mirror, as i smell
burning plastic and worry
that it’s coming from my car,
i say to myself,
this makes sense.
as i grill a year-old frozen
turkey burger patty, watching
it turn grey, as i see a
nation joining together in
patriotic unity to deport,
discriminate, persecute and
hate illegal immigrants,
as i see little R’s, D’s and
I’s next to politicians
names, and hate them all
for perpetuating broken free
trade policies, for
perpetuating ruthless, self-
centered private interests,
and then i think about levis,
starbucks, american idol,
gap, economic stimulus
checks, the freedom to buy
water all the way from fiji,
and i say to myself,
yes, this makes sense.
as i pay $8 for a plate of
korean bbq beef and rice, as
i think about people keeling
over dead from hunger, as i
tip $3 for gratuity, as i see
nations expressing their
right to sovereignty, as i
see the united states calling
these same nations terrorist,
or terrorist supporters, as i
put $35 in my gas tank, as a
homeless man walks around the
city shitting his pants,
begging for spare change, as
i give a dollar to the one-
legged bum that lies about
fighting in ‘nam, as a 16-
year-old girl comes up to me,
prostitutes herself for drugs
or a place to sleep, as i
pull the cigarette from my
lips to tell her the way to
the shelter in sylmar, as i
give $149.15 each week for
taxes and other state/federal
deductions, as i give the
homeless 43-year-old guy
advice on putting together a
good resume, as i applaud the
religious for having the
courage to look away and say
that everything is as it was
meant to be, and how it will
be better when you’re dead,
as i take out the burnt grey
turkey burger patty, as i
think about shooting people
who refuse to think in the
better interest of others,
i say to myself
yes, this makes sense.
as my 26th birthday nears,
i hope it’s my last.
as i see my dad on his bike,
i ask about my brother;
why don’t you kick him out?
make him earn his own. as i
hear my stern, disciplinarian
dad tell me that he’s afraid
to kick my brother out
because at least this way,
him living at home, they know
where he is and he doesn’t
have to worry about
him dying in the street, as i
type, as i breathe, as i
wait, as i worry about my
relationship with my
girlfriend, questioning the
validity of my jealousies, as
i see everyone around me
completely surrendered to
their private routine,
consumed by life,
i think to myself,
i need to pay my cell phone
bill, $60.
My Brother’s Bald Tattooed Head
my brother has a tattoo
of the New York Yankees
logo on the back of his
bald shaved head but
with the bottom part of
the 'Y' in 'N Y'
missing so that it
looks like a big 'V N'
instead for Van Nuys
the local gang.
but occasionally
he lets his hair grow out.
and my mom rejoices
when that happens:
lighting candles, hoping,
praying for permanent long
covering hair, and that
he can successfully get
off of probation without
another violation, without
LA City Mayor Villaraigosa
and Police Chief Bratton
promising to crack down
on gangs - meaning that
gang members, active or not
be harassed, cited, detained
arrested, sent back to an
anti-rehabilitative
over-crowded, intentionally
racist, perfectly-constructed
high-profit, privately-owned
prison.
but today he shaved his
head bald again and tomorrow
he might go back to jail.
and more candle wicks will
inevitably be ignited and
more prayers will
inevitably be said; more
pleads of change, more
bargaining with saints
and virgins; everything
going nowhere, everything,
every word reaching nothing -
not a son's ear, not the
heart of society.
The Belly of a Trailer
standing waist high
in the belly of a trailer
with your work belt
dripping with sweat
in the industrial part
of Sun Valley
California
the light bulb fading
on and off
the fan on
swirling, blasting the dry
hot, musky air
the boxed-in humidity
fogging up
your glasses
the 15-pound boxes
shooting down
the metal slide
zip code side up
half of the time
"JAHM ON DIRTEEN DOWR!"
the Russian zip code sorter
above you
shouts, indicating
to load faster
that the conveyor belt's
jammed with
backed-up boxes
standing chest high
in the belly of a trailer
at the back of
a shipping terminal
sinking
at the age of 19
scanning zip codes
and loading boxes
the future uncoils
in front of you
like a disengaging snake
revealing an idea
of deconstructing
truth
and you start
to think about
diabetes
early-age heart trouble
severe back problems
cancer
unemployment
unpaid parking tickets
the classes
at community college
you'll never finish
unpaid tuition fees
the degree you'll
never get
the red 18-year-old car
with the one gray
colored panel
over the right tire and
the cracked radiator
you'll always have
and never afford
to fix
standing neck high
in the mute surroundings
of your own creation
you look to the fan
and the flickering
light bulb
and watch the trailer's
walls come down
substituting the steel
with tall, quiet
bubbling fire
and you see
a perfect
starless night
above the tips
of the growing flames
and you
stop
to drop the box and
close your eyes
to accept it all.