Poetry

Make no mistake, my dad is alive / in this poem. His glasses are on, his skin is white, / and his jokes are bad.

Then, there is another creature:  jewel-eyed / like a housefly’s wings in paradise, caught / in the shape of a girl.

none of us / want to be where we’re from, and that is the one thing / we have in common anymore.

Stupefied by proof, / I mock a springtime chest, / needle what’s manmade—

Sometimes I miss home and then I eat a sandwich. / Sometimes I want to call my cousin, tell her all her bullshit—

I am not warm like August’s gust. / What words have I for justice to offer?

I say the City did this. ] ] UNTRUE [ [

before bed, he saw out of the corner / of his eye the silhouette of his own dead lolo, / waving goodbye.

a jeweled delusion that took the whole side / of the house by the basketball hoop safe to say all / my childhood I came in the back door spinning 

Every house I passed looked like anywhere I’d want to live. I wanted / and wanted: a house, a family, a house, a family, 

:: one month of gap coverage  ::  can’t be sick / in August  ::  can’t be this tired today  ::  can’t be poor ever  ::

Go to a llantero Uncle Junior would trust. Never go to the dealership. Never pay full / price for anything. If you do, you should love it.