Thursday, May 17, 2012


Chicanos here, man, no like, eh, 
why no like?
said the Oakland Mexicano
whose left eyebrow was an open
gash bleeding from alleyway fight
with six guys pounding his brains,
we were standing outside the bar where the
owner's father was weighing heavily
on the drinks his son could sneak,
Chicanos here no like, eh?...Gringos man, (he pats me on
shoulder, smiling into my face) like man, 
blancos like, in Oakland man,
bap bap bap (his hand pointing finger pistol on
angle) bap bap bap you know, Oakland Chicanos man
he meant to go back later and make those
Philly Mexicans pay, I shook my head
in rags and passed him the napkins, a lost soul, and
left to get a beer and he was gone,
then later
when we were done drinking and he passed with
friend praying for dirty looks or cross words,
finding a fight in even our friendly faces with
his sleeves rolled up and bull face hating
everything, and old bar fighter face,
my bloody friend assuring him
no man, amigos, amigos, they amigos and when
they walked away back to alley where the
fight began that full-circle night
his friend was caught up in nothing that was there
his own hateful illusions I guess,
calling us pussies, calling us faggots,
just plain not getting it.

1 comment:

  1. I could picture it, feel the different vibes.