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Joshua Martin Oct 2013
The representative from Ohio
wipes his *** with Jose’s brown
palms after a bout of verbal defecation.
Luckily, Jose’s food truck houses

a small sink in the corner where
he can wash his hands in between
baskets of chorizo prepared
for rich politicians.

Sometimes Jose scrubs so hard dream flakes
rub off of his skin and he throws them
into the wastebasket to be picked
up by the sanitation workers who

eagerly jump like frogs in orange vests
into the waste of Americana. When
the Representative stops by for
a plate of carne asada, Jose’s

dream specks pepper the beef
and his salty sweat flavors
the inside of the burrito. He grills
the onions and green peppers with

a dash of minimum wage and
boils the rice in a mixture of blood
and pieces of his heritage.
He serves the meal in a white Styrofoam

tray and drizzles it with cheese flowing
from an open wound. The receipt is an unpaid
medical bill, the drink an icy reminder
of his future sipped through a straw.

The nightly news tells Jose
the Representative is bedridden
with a stomach infection. He
complains his insides feel like

a million ***** feet kicking the lining,
like unheard mouths with rows of
sharp teeth gnawing at the liver.
Jose to the tv: tonight we’re not starving.
spysgrandson Jun 2013
the old stone walls are still standing
though they no longer echo with sounds
of cornball jokes, bottle caps poppin’ off cokes
and the happy humming of a repaired motor
  
the old man was there when
the first car pulled in for gas  
28 cents a gallon, all fluids checked for free
spotless windshield guaranteed  
he hired that Mexican boy because he was polite
yes sir, and was the best **** 20 year old
grease monkey in the county
(hell, the state)
boy had one leg shorter than the other  
and had him a twin brother
whose two fine legs carried him that place,
somewhere between honor and complete disgrace,
called Vee-et-nam
but those strong legs couldn’t bring him home  
he come back in a box,
both his good legs blown clear off  

he hired Lolo the day before
his brother come home      
was hot as Hades at that graveside  
but he went and stood by the boy,
his sobbing mama, his sober father
and the hot hole in the caliche
where his brother was gonna spend
forever    

business was good  
the boy spent most of his time
under the hood
of Riley’s ‘51 Ford
or Miss Sampson’s Impala,
(white 1962, with red interior, clean as the day she bought it)  
Nixon beat that old boy from Minnesota  
told everybody he would end that crazy Asian war  
the right way  
but the old man had been
in those foul trenches in France,
killin’ krauts when he was 18  
and he knew there was
no “right” way  

he and the boy had many a good day
with the register cling-clanging,
mechanical mysteries being solved  
and a good hot lunch now and then
when the boy’s mama brought  
fresh tortillas and asada
or the old man would spring
for chicken fried steak sandwiches from the café

yes, many a good day

until
that hot July afternoon  
the day after we landed on the moon
when “they” came  
not from some lunar rock  
but from an El Paso *******  
where graffiti were their psalms
and switchblade knives their toys  
“they” came,
parked their idling ‘57 Chevy in front of the bay,
and bust through the front door
with a gun and a ball bat  
both had hair slicked back
with what looked like 30 weight oil,
“they” smiled, and smelled
of beer and sweat  
“Dame el dinero! Give us the money!
Give us the money old man, cabron!”  
the old man glared at them  
the bat came down and grazed his head,
cracked his shoulder  
“they” did not see the boy with the wrench
who laid the bad *** batter out
with one righteous swing  
the one with the gun did not aim
but pulled the trigger three times  
and two of those hot speeding streams
sliced through the boy’s throat  
the shooter was through the door and burning rubber
while the boy lay bleeding red blood
on the green linoleum floor  
the old man knelt over him, helpless  
saw his eyes close a final time
while the sting of the burned rubber
was still in his nose, and the hellish screech
of the tires still in his ears  

the old man had seen the dead before
piled in heaps in the dung and mud
of those trenches, faces bloated
with their last gasps from the nightmare gas  
but he hadn’t shed a tear
in the pale pall of the dead  
until that hot July day, with a man on the moon, all those miles away
and the best boy with a wrench in the whole state, Lolo,  
silent on the floor in front of him  

they caught the shooter
(sent him to Huntsville for a permanent vacation)
the one Lolo laid out with a wrench died
on the way to Thomason Hospital in El Paso
the ambulance driver was Lolo’s cousin  
and he may have been driving a bit slow    

Lolo was buried the day they came back from the moon
right beside his brother in that ancient caliche
his mother sobbed softly, “mi hjos, mi hijos”  
both boys now cut down
her left with prayers
and memories…  
the boys at the ballpark
their first communions
the grandchildren she would not have  
and the gray graves where they
would return to dust  

the Saturday after, the old man turned 69  
when he flipped his open sign to closed that day, he  
climbed the ladder slowly, painted over his store bought sign
with new white wash,
and red lettered it with “Lolo’s”  
not a person asked
about him using the dead boy’s name  
and things would never be the same    

the old man lasted another nine years  
until the convenience store started sellin’ gas
(they wouldn’t even pump)  
his hands were stiff with arthritis
and his shoulder stilled ached from the crack of the bat  
he closed on a windy winter Friday  
yet painted the sign
a final time that very day  
nearly falling, as he made the last red “S”  
but he made it down the ladder that last time  
and saw the boy’s name in his rear view
as he drove into the winter dusk
Inspired by a picture of  a long abandoned filling station in a small west Texas town--please note, though the name of the station is real, the characters and events are completely fictional creations of the author
Gioia Rizzo Jul 2011
Succulent, meaty, ribs falling off the bone and drenched in a velvety, thick, sauce.
“Check please.”

Tender chunks of lobster tail bathed in sweet, drawn, butter.
“Thank you. That will be all.

Heavy, cream-coated, strands of fettuccine accompanied by fresh peas, Speck, and shaved Parmesan.
“I wish I could stay but I can’t.”

Filet. Rare. A veil of Roquefort and sautéed wild mushrooms in a Sauternes reduction.
“It's just not the right time.”

Perfectly seasoned carne asada with a creamy roasted poblano sauce, queso fresco and the cool, half-mooned, sultry innards of a Hass avocado.
“I'll call you tomorrow”

A decadent Kobe burger blanketed in cheeses, caramelized onions, crisp bacon, and a cap of unctuous foie grois.
“But thank you for everything.”

Peanut butter and jelly on white bread.
And you would have me forever.
Robert Guerrero Oct 2016
Carnitas on the pit
Oranges searing as they hit the grill
Carne asada marinating
Waiting to be sampled
Coronas add lime
A **** shot of jacks
Laughing kids running around
Saturday morning was meant
For memories like this
Searing their own grill marks on our brains
Trampoline backflips into pools
Picking a lemon off the tree
Charcoal growing white
Familiar goodbyes and laters
Maybe another time joy will reach
This house that never seems to smile
Libro, cuando te cierro
abro la vida.
Escucho
entrecortados gritos
en los puerros.
Los lingotes del cobre
cruzan los arenales,
bajan a Tocopilla.
Es de noche.
Entre las islas
nuestro océano
palpita con sus peces,
Toca los pies, los muslos,
las costillas calcáreas
de mi patria.
Toda la noche pega en sus orilla;
y con la luz del día
amanece cantando
como si despertara una guitarra.

A mí me llama el golpe
del océano. A mí
me llama el viento,
y Rodríguez me llama,
José Antonio,
recibí un telegrama
del sindicato «Mina»
y ella, la que yo amo
(no les diré su nombre),
me espera en Bucalemu.

Libro, tú no has podido
empapelarme,
no me llenaste
de tipografía,
de impresiones celestes,
no pudiste
encuadernar mis ojos,
salgo de ti a poblar las arboledas
con la ronca familia de mi canto,
a trabajar metales encendidos
o a comer carne asada
junto al fuego en los montes.
Amo los libros
exploradores,
libros con bosque o nieve,
profundidad o cielo,
pero
odio
el libro araña
en donde el pensamiento
fue disponiendo alambre venenoso
para que allí se enrede
la juvenil y circundante mosca.
Libro, déjame libre.
Yo no quiero ir vestido
de volumen,
yo no vengo de un tomo,
mis poemas
no han comido poemas,
devoran
apasionados acontecimientos,
se nutren de intemperie,
extraen alimento
de la tierra y los hombres.
Libro, déjame andar por los caminos
con polvo en los zapatos
y sin mitología;
vuelve a tu biblioteca,
yo me voy por las calles.
He aprendido la vida
de la vida,
el amor lo aprendí de un solo beso,
y no pude enseñar a nadie nada
sino lo que he vivido,
cuanto tuve en común con otros hombres,
cuanto luché con ellos:
cuanto expresé de todos en mi canto.
Andrew Parker May 2014
Never Have I Ever (Slam Poem)
5/27/2014

Having a best friend makes you think of weird things.

Stuff like:
Getting slapped in the face with a fish is more about smell than texture.
13 nights in a row drinking isn't so bad if you save cash not using mixers.
A stranger hitting on you is a storyline for tomorrow's lunch.
Redecorating my room is just for you, nobody else will see it.
You asked me to go shop with you, are you saying I need new clothes?
Crushing Ritalin in a bathroom, because we stayed up 'til 6am before work.
Pooping is like extra time in the day set aside to call you on the phone.
Why do we play Never Have I Ever when we already know the ever's?
People think we constantly say inside jokes, but we're just telepathic.
I get into shape before you visit town, because you're my best wingman.
If we ever stop being friends, I really hope you don't blackmail me.
Can I designate you to speak at my wedding, babyshower, and funeral?
... or is it too soon to do that?

Losing friends can make you think of weird things, I imagine.

Stuff like:
1. I should stop ordering carne asada fries - I can't finish a whole portion.
2. I keep my curtains closed - I know your car won't randomly be outside.
3. Having lunch alone ***** - I shared a crazy story with the cashier today.
4. I take my poops with the stereo on now - I never could go in silence.
5. My voicemail inbox is full - I can't delete any when your voice pops up.
6. Maybe I should call you.
7. I need to talk to you.
8. I wish I could call you.
9. If only you'd come visit town.
10. Maybe I should go visit the cemetery.
11. I have a new least favorite Never Have I Ever.
12. Never Have I Ever had a best friend die.

And I hope I never ever will put that finger down.
Timothy Brown Apr 2013
Heard sirens

Saw lights

Another body for California St.

Another day in Stockton.

Wait

I know him.

Them too

Hey, who died?

Tagging in the street

R.I.P T.M.F.B

Wait

...That's me...

No, it can't be
I just came from down the street
from the burrito truck
I had to get something to eat.
No onions . mild sauce, carne asada
Don't forget the limes, $4.25? sweet
I turned around and hit the beat
Just grey sweaters, blue jeans
and vans, not sneaks.
Occasionally tye-dye
if I'm feeling unique.
greeting this day I say
this is pretty neat
The train went by and bird are going
tweet tweet
This sauce is still hot but my sweater
keeps off the 84 degree heat
cause i'm sweating and cooling
These shoes look cool against the concrete
Hearing music slapping
I think it's E-40
Smoke rolling from the windows
An arm reaches out the backseat
**BANG
WBC day 5
© April 30th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved
Josh Sep 2019
dad grills carne asada as he always has since the beginning
his golden retriever gazes out beyond space and time
the sky forgets to turn blue, the Sun takes a breath
all the stars begin to look the same.

every summer a piñata swings from the pepper tree
as dust and ice pirouettes around Saturn and the party
a streetlight flickers on K avenue, a shower of silver
crescent moons igniting California smog.
Derek Moran Jul 2018
“carne”
meaning ‘of the flesh’
of course
carnivore
carne asada
carnal pleasure
carne
the most human idea
of all
that there
is any discernible difference
between the flesh
of the Earth
and ours
Abish Apr 2020
I am from the Bookcase,
from the Bookcase and the Stuffed Puppy.
I am from the white rocks on the ground,
and the dried dirt beneath those rocks.
I am from The Pomegranate Tree
whose Red fruit is both sweet and sour.
I am from the Aole Vera plant and Trampoline.
From Cordon and Beltran.
I am from tall men and little women,
from the know it alls, and the overwhelmers.
I am from my mothers Homemade food,
from her Choco flan, and Carne Asada Fries.
From the religious conversion of my great grandfather,
and from the crash where my grandfather was lost.
The beautiful sky my parents painted on my bedroom’s ceiling.
I am from the black sheep of the family,
Judged and shamed by others for being different.
this is a poem about my childhood home
this poem is also a parody of Where I’m FromBy George Ella Lyon

— The End —