chingao, still on parole, 
                   over a year to go,
                   monthly reports and bullshit jive. 
                   a-la-ver-gatos, parole man . . . 
                   el pasiente 1964, summer


       Mania

mania of visceral city life, 
long/empty streets, 
streetcar rumbling . . .

gringos dominate,
we have learned to bow, 
hands ache to once more hold
gun
and create own destiny . . .

cannot bow much longer, 
it hurts
    seeing people begging 
    and then loving
    those who make them beg

majestic people,
    they look that way at times, 
crowd buses 
taking them to gringolandia 
to work as slaves:
           $3 a day
           of ironing
           of salivating out
           yessir boss
           and yessum ma'am.

later at night
they walk back
from a downnntownnn bus-stop, 
streaking out shadowy realities

amidst presidio/tenement hunger. 
haggard women, tired men, 
and futureless children . . .

me? damn, but I'll be killed 
like a mad dog 
in a gutter
before I act like them . . .

where is our haughty spirit, gente? 
where in the hell is it, raza? 
did you also sell that 
along with our land/destiny? 
and you dare call me mad/loco,
cabrón, pinto because my pachuquismo defies

those bofos you appease 
with sweat, work and the bodies 
of your daughters?

¡qué gente tan pendeja 
que no se quiere defender!