HECHIZOSPELLS               

                                    

                              DECEMBER 21,1971
                                      EL CHUCO        

         Tiempo navideño

   tiempo navideño en el paso 
   is like being
   en la pinta and watching 
   wealth promenaded 
   on tv, magazines, y periódicos, 
   and hunger still assails;

   a hunger that is ominous 
   when the mind/soul 
   need expansion, expression 
   and reality is bitching...

   it is the luxury 
   other carnales have 
   when they decide 
   your destiny
   over
   creepy xmas coffee/galletas 
   and they have meetings 
   on an agenda
   that excludes
   reality   and uno 
   nomás siente el hueco 
   comprometido
   when one's hombría 
   is a sombría
   covering up our fears 
   that some, of us, might
   sleep one more roche of being 
   desmadrados, and universitarios
      con credentials love that
      for they've no fears nor creeping needs

   al tener miedo 
   naturalmente uno corre... 
   y when lozito the p.o. 
   knocks on door 
   demanding job performance 
   i cannot tell him 
   that joe or phil or humbert


   or pete or some other bato 
   has listened to la placa 
   and gone along with the blacklist 
   and that i've not worked, 
   no, i say that tomás atencio 
   (un manito) has hired me 
   as cultural advisor/adjuster 
   and am reprieved momentarily, 
   but children at xmas time 
   do not understand 
   lack of xmas presents 
   and their wants hurt 
   when i can't give them anything, 
   but what hurts most of all 
   is knowing
   that someone(s) somewhere 
   meet daily 
   with la ley 
   and rap about un pinto 
   who writes against system(a)s, 
   and parole is tenuous 
   and raza know this, 
   but meanwhile un relajamiento 
   is breaching my peace of mind 
   and i await 
   that pounding on the door, 
   but i've determined 
   that mejor muero que rindirme,
        y sé que
               pontius pilate lives 
               confined in federal programs 
               within a would-be universidad, 
               he is spic and span hispano 
               con aguacero en el ano, 
               patiently awaiting 
               gringo administration's wrath 
               on a few carnales, 
               there is no fight to be had, 
               only realization 
               that chicanos also sell chicanos, 
               and the gava has the huevos 
               to personally kill raza; 
               chingao, lalo will be sold out

               by la mesa directiva 
               even though he believes in causa, 
               they don't, and some of his judas sheep 
               will be people he has known 
               in the barrios he grew up in 
               (it is good that el diablo
                   never produced movement leaders 
                   nor real estate scavengers nor
                   poverty pimping directors...),
               and so, felipe, phil, joe, pete, 
               and all those other chicanos 
               demanding credentials and justifications: 
               have the guts to cast more 
               than pukey aspersions, 
               strike in brutus fashion
               to protect your yessir, boss, positions.

   do it as you sing in falsetto:
               "yo soy chicano, no tengo jabón, 
               americano, pero con olor,
               cuando me dicen de revolución,
               corro a esconderme de bajo el colchón."
   and after you parch your throats,
   after you've gone to hear mariachis
   and cried drunkenly
   about our raza's sufrimientos,
   look into the hollows of your souls
   and see refracted there
   the most vicious oppressors of our raza,
              see estudiante y profesor, 
              social worker & director, 
              concerned conservative 
              and keeper of the status quo,
   and know
   that vísperas de navidad, 
   just like all other days,
   come/flit/& go away, 
   nothing seems to change, 
   el destino será tan inválido 
   como el presente, 
   a sordid materialistic sense 
   of insufficiency and dearth...

              postscript of nöel, 
              realization 
              that when mesa directiva
                    (professors/students/comunidad)
              decided to capitulate
              to regents/deans/& academe,
              chicano studies at u.t.e.p. became
              a ghastly ghost upon the campus,
   effete, powerless, & full of jive,
   y como los pimpos
   tuvieron miedo pelear
   for self-determination,
   they burned lalo
                   (y la causa!)
   in the process, and it was a sad present 
   to see my compa después 
   with a derelict project to direct, 
   while ph.d.'s out of utep 
   added notches to their vitas, 
   y la parola
   pues came on strong
   with legalistic admonitions. 

   tiempo navideño en el chuco 
   es un presente del chamuco, 
   and poverty pimps 
   slip and slide,
   while academia rips off la raza.