"asada" poems
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.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
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.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:42 PM UTC
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.
2.1k
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
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
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.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
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
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
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.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 1:19 AM UTC
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.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC