All is Right

Pocket size dog

claws, claws

paws working double-time

against the furry

leopard print blanket,

pushes the edge this way

and that way with his nose.

Tries out the ditch for size

pops up then claws, paws,

pokes with his nose some more

till he is satisfied.

Pocket size dog then burrows

and coils himself to sleep

in his leopard print ditch

on the sun splotched couch.

The Siamese mix

with white gloves

and stockings,

eyes drops of water,

twirls, and twirls

on the floor.

Little furry rotini

stretching and showing

off her luscious coat,

all browns, golden

and beige, blank spaces

around and around her tail.

She stops the twirls, licks her

right paw then dabs at her cheek

tip of her tail, taps, taps

pure contentment.

Almost-tuxedo-cat

is at the door

staring a cat's stare,

slow blinks and jerky ears.

Front paws

back paws

at attention, little

protector protecting

his front porch.

He hears a bird

sees the bird.

Bird perches atop

Almost-tuxedo-cat’s

fence.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,”

says the bird.

“Trill

            Trill

                        Trill”

replies Almost-tuxedo-cat

in staggered bird calls. 

*Be kind to the animals, spay, neuter, adopt a pet. 

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No Escape

Rises with my morning

sun, its sidekick.

Never settles down

doesn’t burn off

camouflaged by night.

Air pollution

a fusion

of traffic exhaust

factory fumes in cities

marker of my city

fuels lung cancer

and broken down

hearts; fatal.

Air pollution raised

risks for cancer rises.

Smoking still carcinogenic king

no such thing

as a little smog

less is better

more is worse

low levels

low pollution

particulates occupying

lungs.

My city, people packed

like accordion bellows,

higher or lower income

no cushion,
no borders

for ambient air,

lung cancer

laissez faire.

I see it on my walks

up the hill, ominous

ring hovering

over Dodger stadium,

houses compacted

like Lego blocks, all doused

in LA sunset-

cotton candy pink sky

air pollution playing tricks

on our eyes

destructive metabolism

never looked so divine. 


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Home Run Blues

Of course it was me!

I, Pow!

Hit that curve ball

like an ace

y la pelota

“¡Se va, se va, y se fue…

despidala con un beso!”

My dinger caught

by the window.

No rounding the bases

stomping home plate

with a victory dance.

I knew what the call would be

didn’t want to be caught looking

dropped the bat and took cover

from the spanking.

No home run delight

just stinging, tingling butt cheeks

never lingered

longer than cold Cali nights.

Pinche window, damn!

Too infested with decay,

hollowed out by bugs

Landlord too, void to

bother with the damn

window, with tenants’ complaints.

He don’t care about our jams,

sordo like a ref

to Lasorda’s gripes.

Night breeze nipping at

exposed flesh; feet, face,

ears and lips chaffed and numbed.

Landlord gets the good ole’ Bronx cheer!

Poor immigrants

living in  poor Compton

no central heating, no tenants’ rights,

what a yard we live in.

My home run-

a curse.

Now have to wear slipper-socks

to bed and wake up

with sweaty and wrinkled feet

early morning trips to pee hurt,

hardwood floor cold dry ice

on sleepy, damp, numb feet.

Stupid window!

I sit on the toilet

surrounded by morning chill

warmed by daydreams

of winning a lottery prize

La loteria!

big enough to buy

my family a house

no barred windows

no heavy metal 
door feeling like a bullpen.

A house with

A bedroom for each one

my mom, my sisters and me,

and a big green throw

of a backyard

big as a field

where my home runs

can freely

line drive….

roam

as I pump my fist

like Kirk Gibson

rounding the bases.

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Stumbling Blocks

Stumbling blocks

galore

anger is.

Springboard to a dark

garden

cold benches

flowers turned,

rusty, fenced, rain

stained walls

pain DNAed.

How to dig out?

Pout!  Water spout

tipping over. Milk

spilled everywhere

exploded milk thistle’s

red and purple

crowns bouncing about

Stumbling blocks

galore

anger

is.

Under your nails

makes you sick

oozes through

pores

porous,

have to be porous.

Sift, SIFT, SiFt

shift

before sundown.

Stumbling blocks galore.

Anger is, waney

dried up leaves

tan chupadas

look leathery,

SPF 50 those mo’fos.

Ask before I take

another breath

being grateful
everyday,

my panacea.

Feed empty nights

dreams forgotten

less taken than

some roads.


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Cowardly Liz

Starts with a fire

in hear head.

Screws her temples

Spiders her eyes red

feet, sandbags

planted

knuckles knotted

eager to beat plaster-

drywall-concrete.

Knuckles begging for

a bruising, to shoot

the anger out

Spiderman style.

Desperate to drown

the siren’s call

“you-ain't-worth-shit-

can’t-do-nothing-right”

agitating the flames,

body al dente.

If only she could draw

blood, tiny tears on her fist,

a-la Dr. David Banner,

she’d do no harm.

Steam curling nose hairs

Controlled breathing

directs out of control

thoughts. Anxiety

of not being loved

greater than potential

pain. Controlling condition

latent for the day.

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Frida Kahlo Poem Dedicated to Diego Rivera

(Translation by Claudia Rodriguez)

In saliva

on the paper

in the eclipse.

In all the lines

in all the colors

in all the jars

in my chest

outside, inside

in the inkwell

in the difficulties in writing

in the wonderment of my eyes

in the last moons of the sun

(the sun doesn’t have any moons) in everything

To say in everything is imbecile and magnificent.

Diego in my urine- Diego in my mouth- in my heart, in my

madness, in my dream, in the blotting paper- in the tip of the pen,

in the pencils- in the landscapes- in the food- in metal-

in my imagination. In my sickness- in the ruptures- in his

lapels—in his eyes-in his mouth-in his lie.

Kahlo, Frida. in “Frida el pincel de la angustia. Zamora, Martha. La Herradura, Mexico. 1987.

No Small Victories

(for Arthur Ashe)

Born into segregation

unforeseen that your

backhand would set you apart

from others in the best way.

Getting to play as the first

African American in the US Team.

Team America home of the brave

working to keep this land free

and your battles on the court

were no small victories.

Every victory carrying

the weight of your people

the pressure to succeed

an outcast in an all white

white tops, white shorts,
white socks, white skin

all white sport.

All out competitor

taking charge to expose

South Africa’s apartheid

when they denied

you entry into their tennis open,

the world inside and outside the courts

cheered you on
the world got another glimpse

of that country’s oppressive

government, no small victory.

Taking the cake

On July 5, 1975

on the biggest, oldest

snootiest stage facing off

Bruin vs. Bruin,

the #1 Jimmy Connors

went down and you stepped

up at the age of 31, reining #1

in the world. 

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