today i placed a
stone upon your head and i
was a child again
nyuk nyuk nyuk haiku
East LA
heirs
in the corner Chelo sold sweet tamales for her girls to have a place in college in the corner Reynaldo told of the Christ who loved us so that he hung alone in the corner a man got stabbed over a wallet with no change and a picture of his only daughter in the corner three children sold carnations to bury their grandmother who died of blood cancer three months ago in the corner the Mariachi band played trumpeting hymns to their Virgin mom in the corner moon weeps just a little longer rain drops wet the ground in the corner life an ebb and flow of those who will inherit the earth
death of Joaquin
it starts off by an off beat Gregorian chant afternoon belly bloated with heat reruns of Felix the Cat on TV in his past there is a cave maybe he will have to retrace his steps there upon death as they say drool found on his face they gossip abscess on his left leg old black leather shoe scuffed Cuban heel by an original LP cover of the BeeGees to love somebody the irony thick as his moustache neighbor woman ratted red beehive hair hail to the Virgin Mary cat lady eye liner black lipped chiquita vampira cried to the fuzz that she’d gone to check on him on account they fucked every two months navy blue jeans creased to cut cement Pendleton blue white and gray cigarette burn holes fourth button missing from bar scuffle at Footsies last May Fruit of the Loom classic wife beater still stained with the blood of his grandfather a beloved heirloom his Marine days led him astray in the tunnels of the mind alphabet soup G issued pharm cocktailed with torture death and some bombs upon closer inspection Det. Mullen said he has a tattoo with the name of Belinda on his left breast and the cross con safos por vida mark on top of his right hand directly above the thumb crippled by a Derringer at the sweet age of twelve tomorrow was supposed to be the visit between he and his estranged MIT son who goes there on a scholarship won Joaquin had planned to gift him a gold plated LeCross and his Purple Heart medal for enduring a three year involuntary vacation for his country at the Hanoi Hotel
Morrissey en tricolor
durante Agosto a las 8 de la noche
hace mucho calor
compramos helados y cantamos
con nuestros Walkmans
los melancólicos himnos
de Morrissey y Los Smiths
somos la juventud con tristeza fina
emoción delicada
que ya no se puede expresar
con los métodos de los White Fence Boys
en El Este también hay neblina pobreza y destitución
pero también hay cultura costumbres y tradición
también tomamos té y café y hay playa
al fin del tren
entendemos ironías como nuestro ídolo
y aunque se enoje la abuela ya no comemos su cocido
que no sabe que la carne es muerte
los domingos en el cementerio
tratamos de besar a las muchachas
pero solamente en nuestros pensamientos
nuestros lentes grandes nos separan
somos la juventud nueva y media rara
soñamos en cosas que nadie entiende
queremos más de la vida
en la madrugada en nuestras camas literas
nuestro héroe Morrissey nos canta a dormir
Morissey em tricolor
durante agosto às 8 horas da noite
faz muito calor
nós compramos sorvete e cantamos
com nossos walkmans
os hinos melancólicos
de Morrissey e The Smiths
nós somos a juventude
com muita tristeza
emoção delicada
que não pode mais ser expresso
com os métodos dos White Fence Boys
em El Este também há neblina pobreza e miséria
mas também há costumes e tradições culturais
nós também temos chá e café
e há uma praia no final do trem
nós entendemos ironias
como o nosso ídolo
e mesmo que a avó esteja zangada, não a comemos
quem não sabe que carne é morte
Domingos no cemitério
nós tentamos beijar as garotas
mas apenas em nossos pensamentos
nossos grandes óculos nos separam
nós somos a juventude nova e meio rara
nós sonhamos com coisas que ninguém entende
nós queremos mais da vida
no início da manhã em nossos beliches
nosso herói Morrissey nos canta para dormir
Morrissey in tricolor
during August at 8 o’clock at night
it is very hot
we buy ice cream
and we sing with our Walkmans
the melancholic hymns of Morrissey and The Smiths
we are the youth with fine sadness
delicate emotion
that can no longer be expressed
with the methods of the White Fence Boys
in El Este there is also fog, poverty and destitution
but there are also culture customs and tradition
we also have tea and coffee
and there’s a beach at the end of the train
we understand ironies like our idol
and even if the grandmother is angry we do not eat her cooked stews
doesnt she know that meat is death
Sundays in the cemetery we try to kiss the girls
but only in our thoughts
our big glasses separate us
we are the new and strange youth
we dream of things that nobody understands
we want more of life
in the early morning in our bunk beds
our hero Morrissey sings us to sleep
Chato
Chato wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d heard the legends almost every weekend. His fists curled into themselves, not quite tight, not ripe to make a punch. Through the sheet that separated him from the rest of the living room guests, he heard the women speaking. Some weeping, some whispering like the noise of ninja stars in mid air. Chato thought about Ernesto and his eyes watered a little. Glancing down to find a tee shirt to wipe his face, Ernesto’s acceptance letter to UCLA reproached him. Chato comforted his pain by scrolling through his phone to call Chino and the crew. No answer. Chato looked up the wall and smiled at Ernesto’s awards. The rage flooded him. In between blurred thoughts, he could not understand how he and Ernesto had survived so much and suddenly cancer took down the person who meant the world to him.
words less spoken 