Selected Poems

                      

                      texas employment commission, 
                      tired people queue up 
                      looking for work 
                      while dignity shreds itself 
                      into a horrid sense 
                      of non-fulfillment . . .
                      El Chukesburg, Te(de)jaslum
                          August 1976 

           Next


  plastic card
  numbered 37,
  i wait my turn
  to rap
  with bureaucrat
  while spastic sense
  of tiredness
  wilts me and
  those around me.

  number 33 is called,
  he gets up
  and stretches,
  aches 
  while his acne
  shakes
  in resignation.

  then 34,
  weathered woman,
  bronzed
  and tired
  with maid's eyes
  uneasily looks around,
  fishes out a cigarette,
  asks for a light,
  then puffs away
  in metered
  shattered hopes.

  mr. number 35
  is a cross
  between a campesino
  and a janitor,
  unskilled/uncertain,
  hurting like hell
  and worrying
  about leche, comida,
  renta and a host
  of other demeaning
  questions
  plaguing him,
  and

  for number 36 
  there is a panoply of 
  indecisiveness mixed 
  with need 
  for just a shot of whiskey 
  or just a beer 
  or a glass of wine, 
  algo, anything 
  to make the ennui 
  a comfort 
  instead
  of just another
  moment-like other
         countless ones-
  of lunacy
  and bureaucratic unconcern.

  lost
  in the quandary
  of vitiating vibes,
  i feel despondent
  and ahuitado,
  thus do not hear
  a wrenching voice spit out
  "Next! Number
  thirty-seven!
  Are you here,
  Number 37 or . . . ?
  next
      Next
          NEXT!
  i stumble toward the desk,
  present my plastic card
  numbered by a numbing 37.
  she questions me in surly terms, 
  asks about reasons there,
       FOR UNEMPLOYMENT COMPENSATION,
  your record, she asks,
       EX-CONVICT FROM TEJAS Y CALIFORNIA, 
  no, she says, i mean work record,
       LAST JOB AT EL PASO COMMUNITY COLLEGE, 
  as janitor or something else, she says in statement,
       NO, POET/WRITER IN RESIDENCE AND
       COLLEGE PROF IN LITERATURE/POETRY/LINGUISTICS, 
  she smiles cynically,
       I LAUGH,
  education? she asks,
       OH, I HAVE A G.E.D.,
  how can you teach? she asks,
       I ALSO HAVE A Ph.D.. I respond!

               stunned, she equivocates, 
               hands me a rule book, 
               stammers out 
               with knowledge 
               that i will not let her
               mess me around 
               like others 
               that she steps on. 
               i laugh and fill out forms, 
               and walk out 
               into sun's burnishing power, 
               knowing that for a while 
               i will live
               on $63 a week, 
               not much money 
               for a family 
               numbering 3 children 
               and two parents.

  de qué puede servir
  un pinche p . . . h ... d,
  si la miseria
  sigue siendo 
  compañera 
  y las preguntas 
  siguen siendo
         "have you ever been 
         convicted of a crime?" 
  hell, yes,
  the crime of being born Chicano 
  with a mind that questions 
  the very nature 
  of Los Estamos Jodidos en Americagada, 
  plus a few assorted things 
  like using a cuete 
  within the confusion 
  of a mindsoul once young and fearful 
  reacting
  to social stresses
  beyond the comprehension
  of my battered barriered barrio life.

  fue chinga 
  y todavía lo es, 
  y la furia social es 
  inaguantable 
  on the bullshit 
  of $63 a week; 
  so, como en la pinta 
  i shall plot and seek a way 
  pa pegarles pa tras 
  a los cabrones 
  que se creen muy patrones; 
  i have the patience

  to await
  another date with destiny, 
  for it is kismet 
  that i shall still 
  get to do my thing, 
  even if the critics 
  and other pseudo-intellectual
           encorbatados 
  do blacklist me.

  sé sufrir
     y aguantar hasta que reviente, 
  y entonces veremos
  pinches bofos de chic-anglo studies 
  whether or not
  i'm qualified enough . . .

  meanwhile
  i laugh
  knowing well 
  que he hecho 
  con mi vida algo
  which few can do, 
  del barrio
  to being an army drop-out 
  while being a high school push-out 
  to doing time en soledad y la tejana 
  to making it to a ph.d.
  from the disadvantaged level 
  of a g.e.d.
  to coming out 
  con dos obras netas 
  y otras cosas.

  pues a la neta, 
  maldíganme si gustan, 
  y jódanme si pueden, 
  pero no nieguen,
            cabrones, 
  que he probado

  that a bato from the barrio
  with limited means
    and a sorry education
  can confront
  pedagogues and other literati oriented
  casi intellectuals
  and prove in 14,
       yes, fourteen,
  months
  that the journey
  from GED to PhD can be had . . .

  so all you jive
     doctores and other bueyes,
  strut your thing
  while i sardonically must laugh,
  for you might have the jobs
  while i continue being my own man. . .

               so, lady of TEC, 
               get all perplexed 
               as you realize 
               that a certain 
               crazy doctor 
               did really ask
               for unemployment comp.

  feel chingona and secure, 
  as you fret 
  your way back everyday
  to a regimenting regimented cage,
               i'll laugh and be 
               a poet much unsane, 
               able to criticize 
               with mirth 
               poetitas
                 fearful to lose faith 
               with their literati bosses,

  pos,
  me importa verga


  lo que pase,
  yo seguiré viviendo, 
     for i, in being, know 
  que la muerte
     a todos viene;
  no tengo cosa que perder,
  so i'll live and celebrate,
     festejaré each moment 
  with whomever 
  has the guts to also live; 
  so while you politick
     and juggle for positions, 
  remember
  that you sold
  your soul and mind 
  while you accommodated, and 
  don't you for a moment forget that 
  when you deal with me, 
  don't ever underestimate me, 
  for i'll never ever be so foolish 
  as to overestimate
     the way you live and work . . .

  people like me
  shall live
  as ever we have lived,
     aware and very hurting, 
  but always in rebellion.
  we love, we sing,  
  and never fear to be 
  poetas locos, bohemios en la vida, 
  who on banderas crap, 
  we screw, we laugh, 
  and never hide our realness, 
  we'll not pretend
  to be
  more than what we are . . .