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She lives in
an insular world
of emotional instability
and impulsivity.

I live with
the possibility that
the illness
will overpower
the meds
and she’ll do something
impetuous
and unintentionally
tragic.

Most nights,
as I make
my final rounds,
set the house alarm,
and walk up
the darkened stairs,
I see the light
from under her door.

Maybe she’s awake
and her mind is racing.
Maybe she fell asleep
with the lights on.

I’m just grateful
I know where she is
and that she’s safe.

My rain comes
in meek droplets
and unforgiving sheets.

Rarely does it wash
anything clean,
merely adding
another layer
of dirty air,
baking itself
on the roof
of my car,
or on a cheap plastic
backyard chair,
miscreant weeds and
unspoken-for
mounds of dirt.

No,
my rain is
unpredictable
and it takes
a day or two
for its musty
grasp to be
loosened.

It can gray-dampen
a sun filled sky,
sit on my plans
and cruelly,
unceremoniously,
remind me
of my ultimate
helplessness
and finite
abilities.

My rain
comes in memories
of loss, regret
and longing

and even if
I try
to hide indoors,

it is always
rainy season
in there too.

Cool Saturday mornings
in spring
I weed the planter
in blissful silence.

It’s simple,
tactile.

I break the
cold hard ground
and sift the dirt
through my fingers
plucking the weeds
as though they were
errant gray hairs.

The same ground
worked and farmed by
my Mexican ancestors
and the Mestizos before them
and the Indios before them
and the Aztecs…

I am connected
to that eternal continuum
of hands digging
into this Earth.

It is almost
a mindless activity,
peaceful,
this private haven
that I own

and I smile
at my self-deception
and audacity:

to think
I own this land
that was here
long before
all my ancestors

and will outlast us all.

My name’s just
on the deed

for now.

In the hierarchy
of White racism
I see 
two distinct reactions:

first,
there is hard hatred
against Black skin
and those who
inhabit it,
the blacker the skin,
the more virulent
the animus, and

second,
there is soft hatred
against those
who are off-white,
of which I am
one.

Since I am not
as dark as others,
I do not endure the same
wrath as they do,
but don’t think
this is any kind
of protection.

As I am
fair-skinned,
the White racists
sometimes forget
that I am non-White
and let me see
who they really are

-in all their
entitled ignorance and ignominy-

and I can test
in real-time
whether their
words and actions
align
into ethical integrity.

This perspective
is a blessing,
and the finding
is often a curse,

but that’s the risk
you take
when you’re
the Undercover Chicano.

1983 was
a simpler time,
and our love
was simple.


There were
no needless
complications.

No sex
(we were both
too scared),
we knew
we couldn’t
handle that.

Sitting with her
in the shade
at Hillcrest Park
on that May afternoon
was enough,
leaning on each other,
gazing at
an ever-receding
horizon.

Her laughter,
her chestnut brown hair
in the breeze,
her full, deep gaze
were all I needed.

It went by
so quickly.

Just as leaves
don’t fight
to stay
on their branches,
we didn’t fight
our inevitable
parting.

I think about her
every Spring,
thankful
that even our goodbye
was simple.

I’m sure
she wouldn’t
recognize me
today.

She knew me
before all the drama,
all the unnecessary
damage,
before all the
complications.

She loved me
when my heart was
simple.

I wait for the moon;
she is holder my secrets,
holder of my dreams.

I sent many prayers
her way,
wishes and kisses
I’ve bounced off her
to lovers far away.

She bathes
the windowsill
as I gaze,
eyes glaze over
memories
and future plans.

I know
this cool, blue lady
does not belong
only to me,

but the essence
of this longing,
this incompleteness
in my soul

belongs only
to her.

I wait for the moon
and she never
forgets.

One of my earliest memories:
standing in line
with my parents
at some amusement park
or public place,
(that’s how early this memory is),
and I was holding my father’s hand.

I was so little
probably 2 or 3
and I was just immersed
in the experience
so much

I heard my parents
from behind me
say
“What are you doing?”

So I looked behind me
and there were my parents

so then whose hand
was I holding?

I looked up
and saw a beatific
face of a chuckling,
middle-aged
African-American man,
just smiling at me,
amused at this mystery child
holding onto his hand.

That image of smiling grace
is fundamental to who I am.

All my life,
as a Mexican-American,
I’ve never felt anything
but kinship,
acceptance,
for African-Americans,

and I wonder if
that smile had something to do
with it.

First impressions matter.

There is no purple in this poem,
nor mentions of paisley,
no crying doves.

It wasn’t his
fashion sense,
his androgyny,
his apocalyptic
religious beliefs.

No, what soul’d me
on Prince
was the liner credit
on the “Controversy” album
(the first Prince I ever heard):

“Produced, Arranged, Composed and Performed
by Prince.”

A true auteur,
who could seemingly
do it all
like Charlie Chaplin,
like Stevie Wonder,
like God.

As time went on
the music got
funkier
and he became
stranger,
branched out
into formless movies,
pastel clothing,
ponderous poetry
CD-ROMs,
almost daring the fans
to stay attached
to his decidedly
unpopular
vision.

(To prove my devotion
I wore a fuchsia silk suit
when I graduated
from college,
my version of
Gangsta Glam.)

It was this belief
in himself,
in his prodigious
iconoclastic abilities,
that inspired me,
a fat
Mexican American
kid
in the Orange County
suburbs

to think
I can make myself
into whatever I want
to be,
just like Prince.

So now,
at 52
I still write my poems,
record my songs,
plan my movies,
and I still wish
I were Prince.

I’ve been acclimating myself

to this suburban desert

since I migrated here

30 years ago

to take this job

in academia.



In August’s stifling heat

I imagine

my Mexican ancestors

physically laboring

under the unforgiving and indifferent sun,

silently bemoaning

their plight to God

(who else could care?),



and I am privately shamed

by how disconnected I am

from them



as I sit in my air-conditioned

third-floor,

corner office

comfort,

vaingloriously

pecking at this keyboard,

trying to write

Poetry.

Were I “that kind of Mexican”
I’d make an authentic
ofrenda,
instead of this:

por mis abuelos,
for Trini
who always had hugs and
warmth in her smoker’s rattle voice,
y Juan
and his ever present stubble which
scraped my face with each embrace,
y Irene
whose caustic humor
belied a broken life and body.

Then there are mis tios:
Rudy the bear,
Ray the quiet genius,
Fernie the garage philosopher,
Eddie the passionate spark,
Kiki the gentle soul,
Carmen the humble and strong,
y Nancy the loud, proud eagle.

Then, there are my cousins,
Celia and Johnny,
both taken too damned soon.

Finally,
mi Pop,
Daniel (pronounced Dan-Yell),
called Copi,
short for “el Capitan”
who gave me everything he could.

I send my prayers
to God
in thankfulness,
in wonder,

and I pray
for each of you
to send me
what I need
from wherever you are
now.