been out almost a year, 
                      it has been eventful, 
                      from the tattered
                         El Paso Chicano Movement
                                streets 
                      to Richmond, Virginia and 
                      on to University of Mass at 
                      Amherst, writing, híjola, 
                      beginning to feel alive... a baby 
                      is aborning . . . again..... and 
                      again on parole, but this time 
                      must stick around to see my child 
                      born and grow . . . February 1970.

       Ayer, Ay, Ayer

Ayer, ay, ayer
i read your letter, carnal, 
while on way to protest meeting, 
farmworker rep at Yale 
and MECHA students asked me 
to read poetry.

it felt good,
damn good,
at last
to embrace beyond plots 
and to share 
moments in time 
with people 
who sincerely wish 
to create 
meaning and sense 
out of the chaos
of our people's poverty.

blacks, native americans, 
puerto ricans, poor whites, 
chicanos, and a lot of women

met and shared,
inside
i felt
some of the rancid bitterness 
of nine scabby years 
flake off.

still haunted, i sense my need 
to somehow unravel 
the past, to know it 
and then to transform 
my insecurities 
and thus grow 
into a me
able to love back . . .

so, véngase, movimiento, 
teach me to recoup my youth and trust; 
ay, i yearn to struggle with you 
in a covenant of love and freedom.