Once Upon a Mexican

 

Somewhere back in mother’s memory

Grandpa made mention of Mexicans.

Poncho Villa may have been

dropped here or there

Rode with or against in 

Chihuahua, Chihuahua.

 

Grandma may have let slip

seeing Cesar’s red, Ford, pick-up

from the Fresno fields

some talk of patrones,

organizado and “Si se puede!”

 

In my grandma’s kitchen,

hearing Rancheras on the radio,

dancing in grandma’s arms,

feeling the foreign words,

sung in a familiar tone,

fall upon my loving ears,

I smiled dizzily into her spins and sways.

 

Mother never spoke in la, la, las,

Which grandma and grandpa yelled and whispered privately.

Her food spoke those delicious sounds,

enchiladas, tacos, arroz con pollo, tostadas y frijoles.

History and memory took their turns in invading phrases like

Clean your mocos.  Pick up your dirty chonies. Go mimies, mijo.

 

I smell out comfort,

tasting memories in La Soga, El Noviero and Carolina’s. 

I cling like a moco to affectionados:

“Have a good day, mija!  Go mimies.”   

We still unwrap tamales at Christmas.

Shove tortillas to the back of the freezer,

keep emergency Rosarita refried beans, 95% less fat,

waiting (smiling) in the cupboard.

I remember in America

(I was/ we were) Once upon a Mexican.

 

 

dbaraza

 

 

 

Dim Lights

 

I know I’ll find him this time.

This is the place

with the doorway dark enough,

building pushed just far enough

unnoticed enough, but by regulars.

 

That’s what my father was

a regular,

like this place,

this hole, this world.

 

The walls, like I remember,

lined and tabled

with dark, smoky men,

undefined shadows,

musty, ripped, worn out

shirts tucked in and torn out,

falling over oil stain jeans

to battered and bruised boots.

 

This place,

the right place for the wrong ones

like my  father, like him, like her,

like me, like you,

who could find no place

in the Fresno field,

Los Angeles factory

or Cal University.

 

Every face brings me closer

to his eyes, my daddy’s longing look. 

They too have been beaten,

lost with loss in their running,

leaving doors open,

leaving women crying,

 leaving children waiting.

 

And their thirst for more,

like my father’s,

like yours, like mine,

have brought us here,

under these dim lights,

between smoky breath

of too Tequila strong men,

gulping down empty bottles,

drowning empty hearts; 

their thirst too full to fill.

 

I see him,

long, dark, uncombed

tangles over wide shoulders,

holding tattooed arms,

carved with scars,

my daddy’s arms.

 

I move to the bar,

resting all my hopes

on a single stool.

 

The man, two fisted hands,

left me standing in the cold doorway,

watching him flee

from mother and me,

never turning back.

 

I turn to the man,

the Asiatic eyes,

the Roman nose,

the Aztec lips,

as large as I remember.  

 

Fifteen years of looking,

Rocky Ford, Riverside, Houston,

favorite downtowns,

last whereabouts. 

 

Five years,

leaving behind my  own children,

my wife, to become my father,

drink his cold beers,

bullshit with his drunk friends,

dance with his unfaithful lovers,

play with his abandoned children.

 

Searching out the days and nights

too long forgotten questions,

collecting these parts and these pieces.

 

Why did you do it? Why?”

I ask myself in the mirror

across the bar.

 

dbaraza

 

For My Mother

 

She had a good father

in the sense that he stayed,

made her trust all men to be that way

 

However, all her men ran away,

abandoners, all

not there when their children learned to crawl,

never lent a helping hand,

prevent a fall,

but this poem is not for them

too many words wasted on their negligence

 

For My Mother

the one who stayed,

the one who drove me to my baseball games

the one who taught me prayers against the night

the one who kissed my wounds and held me tight

the one who became angry at my sins

beat me black and blue with a belt, (love’s leather skin)

thinking that’s what a father would do,

but this poem is not for them (him)

those (that) long gone stranger(s) of the night

 

For My Mother

the one who mentioned books to read

the one who cleaned me, housed me, kept me fed

the one who stayed when hope had fled

and woke up early, worked real late

the one who dreamed of a college grad

the one who laughed whole heartily at all my jokes

encouraged me to write, believed in me

 

For My Mother

the one who stayed and protected me

stayed to build a man (when none could be found) from one small child

a woman’s man that would not leave

who’d raise his children thoughtfully

with work and sacrifice and time

For My Mother

 

dbaraza

 

 

Always and Nevers

 

We talk always and nevers

Compares and contrasts

Discuss silences

Argue eyes, yell turned backs

 

Chew on words, swallow,

Gulp down suppressed sadness

Burp displeasure, hiccup dissatisfaction

Stir depression with a spoon

Scoop and slurp misery from the cereal bowl

Cry into spilt milk, choke on kind words,

Laugh out angry phrase like “I love you?”

Reflect neglected caresses,

Forgotten hand rubs, far away kisses,

Cough up memories in echoed silence

 

Salty sorrow runs down our cheeks

Over lonely lips, past a thirsty mouth

Words find a windowless time

Walking past hurled complaints,

Beyond tearful pleases, careless critiques

 

Drown our dreams in an empty plate

Begin conversations with “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Leave rooms mumbling curses under breath,

doors slamming good bye

searching under dirty laundry,

Demanding whys and (tripping over) stacked up why nots,

waiting (quietly, hopelessly) silently for eye contact.

 

dbaraza

 

 

Culture of the Clenched Fist

 

Our questions begin with hands raised in the air

Answers come in the form of a fist

Disagreements end in busted lips and black eye debates

Wrong answers come with a slap

And a following of fists

 

We talk in swings and blows

Argue pushes and shoves

Counter tackle

Arguments settled on the floor

 

Hands speak faster in lefts and rights

Words can not compete like the delicacies of a one-two punch

promises never replace the certainty of a swift kick

No point in arguing down the back-handed slap

 

Heavy handed love

Hugs and kisses were stories never told

Arms and lips were weapons and targets

Culture of the clenched fist

 

 

Inferiority complex

 

On the way home today,

driving in my Camry Hybrid,

listening to Poetry Speaks CD 1,

the actual voices of

William Butler Yeats, Robert Browning,

Walt Whitman, thinking

how weak, how boring these men read,

such powerful words

in powerless voices,

where’s the drama, conflict

 

I pull up along side a car,

looking to my right

I notice two vato locos

looking my way

I stare them down

I have to, I can’t look away,

thinking to myself,

please, say something,

pull over, let’s get down,

let’s cha cha

 

I don’t know why I’m thinking this,

I’d probably get my ass beat

or I’d throw one with a seoi-nage

breaking his back

and put the other one in a choke hold,

but why do I play this alpha dog shit?

I’m a nice guy, I enjoy listening to poetry,

walks in the country, helping others,

learning about cultures and languages.

Why must I mentally fight every man in the room?

Culture of the clench fist?

Inferiority complex?

 

They look away,

that’s right bitches.

I sit in my Camry Hybrid,

triumphant, listening to poetry

Yeats, Browning, Whitman,

thinking yeah,

I could probably kick their asses, too.

 

dbaraza

 

I apologize to you, my pen

 

Last week left little time to dance,

Your footprints did not tip-toe, shoeless cross the page.

 

I thought often of you lying lifeless, still,

Remembering the days we sweat and bled

Through winters cold and frozen loneliness,

How you’d take my hand and hold me firm,

And run with me through thoughts and worlds unknown.

 

How I longed to take you softly with impatient hand,

To feel again your rhythm and your plan,

Strike fire sparks along the page,

Thaw out the empty coldness with fiery verse again.

 

The Page Aches

 

The pen strains

Lines lay awake all night

Looking up, waiting, hoping,

Imagining great things to be said

Written for all eternity,

Made infamous with use

One day to be air tight,

Preserved for generations

In a steel vault

With laser red armaments

Heists planned and re-planned,

Made movies about,

Overdose of commercials,

Disappointed reviews,

Too soon to DVD,

Saturday night movie of the week,

Sunday afternoon matinee,

 

The page impatiently aches,

Waiting to be stained,

Straining with misuse

The page aches.

 

 

Unpack

 

Unpack these tired thoughts

these weary, worn out words.

Hang up this secret sadness,

(this) unpolished put-away pain.

Dust off the broken pieces of the heart.

Unfold the wrinkled frown.

 

It is time again

to piece together

the broken mirror to the soul.

 

Let words waken,

stretch,

reach out

and chase

meaning again.

 

dbaraza

 

 

This Empty Bed

 

My memory of her

can’t be held

nor kissed

nor caressed,

nor keep me warm at night,

nor remind me to turn off the light

in my crowded, little bed we once shared.

 

This once crowded,

now empty bed,

where we once danced and sang

and rolled around our days

into fat round weeks

of monthly moons

and earthly years,

this little crowded bed of mine

once contained the universe.

 

I fill my empty bed,

my cold, sweet, unscented bed

with alien skin and flesh,

foreign legs spread

over our cold mattress’s song

that sings of warmer nights,

deeper sighs, shaking thighs,

arching cries with soft, soft, soft,

salt water eyes.

 

And I reflect

on this bold escape

into some stranger’s strange embrace,

strange lips that have a different pucker

and shyer lick,

but I roll on into the lonely night

with what’s-her-name’s

(and Nobody’s) body all over me

and the memory of you.

 

I try to love you

through this smooth, soft skin

that you’re nowhere close to being in,

and momentarily, for a few seconds,

enjoy this failure

I am currently in.

 

dbaraza