by Luis J. Rodríguez

    We sink into the dust，

    Baba and me，

    Beneath brush of prickly leaves；

    Ivy¹ strangling trees——singing

    Our last rites² of locura.

    Homeboys. Worshipping God-fumes

    Out of spray cans.

    Our backs press up against

    A corrugated³ steel fence

    Along the dried banks

    Of a concrete river.

    Spray-painted outpourings

    On walls offer a chaos⁴

    Of color for the eyes.

    Home for now. Hidden in weeds.

    Furnished with stained mattresses⁵

    And plastic milk crates⁶.

    Wood planks⁷ thrust into

    thick branches

    serve as roof.

    The door is a torn cloth curtain

    （knock before entering）。

    Home for now， sandwiched

    In between the maddening days.

    We aim spray into paper bags.

    Suckle them. Take deep breaths.

    An echo of steel-sounds grates the sky.

    Home for now. Along an urban-spawned

    Stream of muck， we gargle in

    The technicolor synthesized madness.

    This river， this concrete river，

    Becomes a steaming， bubbling

    Snake of water， pouring over

    Nightmares of wakefulness；

    Pouring out a rush of birds；

    A flow of clear liquid

    On a cloudless day.

    Not like the black oil stains we lie in，

    Not like the factory air engulfing⁸ us；

    Not this plastic death in a can.

    Sun rays dance on the surface.

    Gray fish fidget below the sheen.

    And us looking like Huckleberry Finns/

    Tom Sawyers， with stick fishing poles，

    As dew drips off low branches

    As if it were earth's breast milk.

    Oh， we should be novas of our born days.

    We should be scraping wet dirt

    with callused toes.

    We should be flowering petals⁹

    playing ball.

    Soon water/fish/dew wane¹⁰ into

    A pulsating¹¹ whiteness.

    I enter a tunnel of circles，

    Swimming to a glare of lights.

    Family and friends beckon¹² me.

    I want to be there，

    In perpetual dreaming；

    In the din¹³ of exquisite¹⁴ screams.

    I want to know this mother-comfort

    Surging through me.

    I am a sliver¹⁵ of blazing ember

    entering a womb of brightness.

    I am a hovering¹⁶ spectre shedding

    scarred flesh.

    I am a clown sneaking¹⁷ out of a painted

    mouth in the sky.

    I am your son， amá， seeking

    the security of shadows，

    fleeing weary eyes

    bursting brown behind

    a sewing machine.

    I am your brother， the one you

    threw off rooftops， tore into

    with rage——the one you visited，

    a rag of a boy， lying

    in a hospital bed， ruptured¹⁸.

    I am friend of books， prey¹⁹ of cops，

    lover of the barrio women

    selling hamburgers and tacos

    at the P&G Burger Stand.

    I welcome this heavy shroud²⁰.

    I want to be buried in it——

    To be sculptured marble

    In craftier²¹ hands.

    Soon an electrified²² hum sinks teeth

    Into brain——then claws

    Surround me， pull at me，

    Back to the dust， to the concrete river.

    Let me go！——to stay entangled²³

    In this mesh²⁴ of barbed serenity²⁵！

    But over me is a face，

    Mouth breathing back life.

    I feel the gush²⁶ of air，

    The pebbles²⁷ and debris²⁸ beneath me.

    "Give me the bag， man，" I slur²⁹.

    "No way！ You died， man，" Baba said.

    "You stopped breathing and died."

    "I have to go back！……you don't

    understand……"

    I try to get up， to reach the sky.

    Oh， for the lights——for this whore

    of a Sun，

    To blind me. To entice³⁰ me to burn.

    Come back！ Let me swing in delight

    To the haunting knell³¹，

    To pierce colors of virgin³² skies.

    Not here， along a concrete river，

    But there——licked by tongues of flame！

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