this nice place, rich, 
                    where el paso nice people 
                    sleep, unaware that hunger 
                    wilts children 
                    a few miles south, ay, 
                    drinking with 
                    striving-to-make-it-raza 
                    who feel some guilt still 
                    as to why they made it while 
                    others didn't . . . do we want 
                    programs in education, health, 
                    job training? shit, bueyes, 
                    we merely want to know that 
                    the world is also ours . . . 
                    Coronado section of El Paso, 
                    in the state of Te(de)jas 
                    June 19, 1972

         Coronado


almost asleep,
the beer has found
its resting place
and in its way
enmeshed the mind and soul, 
lulled the body's energy, 
and every fibre of my being 
clamors within 
for a reprieve,
               a sweet surcease, 
         a call to sleep,
               to while away the time, 
pero, and it's a big, big pero, 
the others ask
that we partake of time
to chit and chat
about our human quandaries . . .

parole smiles out
slice after slice
of indignifying questions,
joblessness smites
and bites,
and the sores of
empty/pus spawned
huddled humankind
in every fetid barrio
gnaw and gnash
thoughtfeelings,
rip sanity apart,

and you want time 
to chit and chat 
as you strive 
for sensitivity, 
all it takes is sense 
to realize 
that hunger
means explosion . . .