on the table is a word
followed by dozens of
other words lying next
to each other in lines of
instruction, warning and
grief
although the moon has
dropped her pretty face
i pick her up by her wise
chin and beg her to shine
again
the stars in my moon’s
hair dance like beams
in a driven stony river
where the bones of time
soak unto the soil of my
bloods
DTLA
Westlake
at 5:37 p.m. the smell of
bacon and fabric softener
covers the neighborhood
like 4 a.m. London fog
so many lies and angers
and injustices and tears
and hungers and losses
in one city block
but the smiles, oh
those immutable smiles
and the hope in the paper sacks
dog shit by the fichus trees
is the city’s way of welcome
but the carnival in the hearts
and the corn fed regimes in mind
cannot and will not tear
them down
angst, terror and hate
has become a child’s game
the roses are not free
but they are in juan v’s
can along the window
rotten with defeat
it is no longer enough
to wave the right flags
blood sacrifice one son
to the blue coats and one the
the Vat
no we have become
smarter than you
and we will not
lay down to the east
or to the west
but resign to be
free in the window
in the door
in our spirit
and in the mind
to be 74
although the scratches on the record
add to the appeal of midcentury Americana,
i don’t believe the boy at the counter
gave me correct change.
the fact that my perfume is from S.H.Kress
across the street, but the gangrene on my leg
cannot be hid by pheromones alone.
the stench is likened to war.
but that is not the fact.
the one good leg danced the Tennessee Waltz
when it was good, the bad leg was bad
from the beginning.
the root, the marrow, the veins,
the sinews all of it; rotten
all over. i wear pearls and smile
at the wrong time and in the wrongest of place.
Buddy Clark in my head,
i saw Treasure of Sierra Madre
merely to see Bogey again
on Los Angeles Street before
the nuclear heat pushes me down
518
i remember being young in times of war
being old today is still turmoil
trapped between the edge of ancientness and gigabytes
marching down any street of l.a.
i imagine what might have happened to you
Chiapas was a foggy land and in the mouths
of studious warriors
seventh and broadway was too
being here in this downtown forest of wires
the hunger in the soul after 85,000 days of fasting is
breast fed at Clifton’s nook
carousels of irony in theater views
lobbies full of revoltless revolution
my nome de guerre you ask?
i have not one by incidental quiet rage
delegado cero
donde esta usted?
i saw your mirror on a caricature tagged up wall
alla por la sunset
Tlatelolco massacre
is a $3.50 tropical drink at grand central bars
delegado will i find you at the corner?
will i find you in a heart?
as i tread upon my gum stained pavements
words less spoken 