Do you ever wonder what it would be like,
Had you gone out with me instead?
That if you’re Filipino or Filipino-American,
And you want to make things great for yourself,
You can do anything you want, or be anybody,
And work for it with dignity and sweat and blood.
And you will be righteously recognized for it.
That is unless,
César Chávez also wants to do it.
That if you’re a Mexican
You can stand on the corner
Of a busy street and people
Will give you money in exchange
for roses and oranges
And strawberries and such.
And if you’re an American
You can stand on the same corner
With some cardboard and people
Will give you money in exchange
for nothing.
Back home there’s a group of young kids who call themselves Boyz, and there’s a motel called the Motor Lodge. The Motor Lodge has a pool and jacuzzi where tourists can watch Disneyland fireworks that go boom at night, and on the inside it’s furbished with comfy chairs and carpets.
Across the street you can see the Tower of Terror. When not watching that there’s softcore porn on the tv, fast food, local malls. Of the Boyz there was one kid who had beef. Not just beef but also a girlfriend. But the Boyz don’t stand for beef. The Boyz don’t stand for girlfriends, or softcore either.
The girlfriend one day was lured to The Motor Lodge, which is really just a motel but they call it the Motor Lodge to make it sound nicer. The Motor Lodge is respectable, brown brick styling, luscious landscaping. It’s close to the convention center. It’s close to small shops where one can buy Mickey
Mouse souvenirs. The Boyz had a mother named Connie. On paper her name looks cute because it ends in an “ie” and not a “y”. Connie has a son named Carlos. Carlos was a virgin before the other kid’s girlfriend was lured to the lodge. Connie was embarrassed about this and that’s why the police think she
Participated . The girl was lured by her friend Jolean, not really much of a friend at all. When the girl arrived she was surprised to see so many people there, Jolean, Connie and Carlos included, as well as the others on the police report – Jesse, Randy, Keizzy, Adrian, Raymond, Luis and lastly Gilbert, who was 15.
I bought a pack of Reese’s today and
Laid them on the coffee room table.
My roommate asks if he can have one,
I say they cost two fifty a cup.
He say’s how do I reckon that, and
I tell him a story about how
The woman I bought them from
Knocked and fidgeted and waited
Outside our gate, her dress, her clip
Board, her makeup, her sunhat. She
Came representing a battered
Women’s shelter, saying that the
State had cut their funding, that for
Them to stay open she and other
Representatives have been aksing
For the neighbors of the community
To donate twenty dollars. She says
That the shelter gave her hope in a
Time when she had no dignity. That
It helped her get off drugs. Gave her
The strength to leave the good-for-
Nothing asshole who beat her and made
Her feel like shit for years. She also said
That she’s been clean and happy for
Four years since then and thanks God
Every day for that shelter. When she
Was speaking I saw the vulnerability in
Her body language, her eyes, I thanked
Her for sharing when she was done. Then
I lied and told her I only had ten dollars.
She said that would be ok because every little
Drop counts. And then I felt bad and told her
My grandma always said the same thing and
She thanked me for the money and said
That I should thank my grandma for raising such
A nice young man. And in the end she gave
Me a pack of Reese’s with four cups in it,
Which is where I reckoned two fifty per
Cup. Then my roommate ate one of them
And said, that’s some expensive chocolate.
And I said, yeah I know.
Our temple is a giant rosy cactus
Worship harsh, dry prayers
Stinging particles in wind, glass gritted
Peeled adobe – Litany cracked, splitted.
Smelling rosy and sandstone,
Atop the alter, Jose Cuervo is the best man,
There is sour his speech says
One thing but means another, clanged
The bells from every mile teaching honey
Mooners that doggie style is not part of God’s plan.
Panning for polymer, we the dearly beloved find
The pieces lay lodged in the stomachs
Of eagles and seagulls, cut one open you will
See suffering in the form of pay dirt.
Synthesized diamonds from tequila
They are. Roamed and of speckled plastic pyrite and
Privilege, hungry ghosts them all- Eureka, I found it.
A Country Song
*
Poor Christian people don’t have existential problems
They don’t spite God, they just believe in him
They don’t bite the hand that feeds ‘em
Even if all they eat is bread and water
They are still sons and daughters of God.
*
My next door neighbor has a little girl
She can’t walk, she can’t talk and now she has diabetes.
She was born right into her wheelchair
But when I look into their eyes there’s no bitterness, just peace.
*
That’s because poor Christian people don’t have existential problems
They don’t spite God, they just believe in him
They don’t bite the hand that feeds ‘em
Even if all they eat is bread and water
They are still sons and daughters of God.
*
I ran into my old friend Luke the other day
He’s had problems with drugs and alcohol since the day he could swallow
He told me that he’d made a turn-around since he’d found God
And so whatever the bible says now he will follow.
*
That’s ’cause poor Christian people don’t have existential problems
They don’t spite God, they just believe in him
They don’t bite the hand that feeds ‘em
Even if all they eat is bread and water
They are still sons and daughters of God.
*
I’ve been facing problems since becoming learned
Such as who am I, how did I come to be, and what on earth am I going to do?
But poor Christian people are just happy working for what they have
And lordy I’d give all the money in the world to feel like that.
*
Because poor Christian people don’t have existential problems
They don’t spite God, they just believe in him
They don’t bite the hand that feeds ‘em
Even if all they eat is bread and water
They are still sons and daughters of God.
This La Jolla man is so full of pride
His new car matches his mail-order bride.
For Stevie
The day outside is a perfect day.
But I would rather have it a shitty day
where my mom has a job and where
my grandma doesn’t have cancer.
But because I’m an adult
and because fate trades for keepsies
I’ll be damned before I become
no godamned good-for-nothing takerbacker.
There’s an orphan down in Mexico
Who blows her little boogers on my sleeve,
And through tears she begs, “Alec, please don’t leave.”
Her mother, when she was very young, taught her a language
That’s older than Jesus. Before she died she sold trinkets
And bracelets of saints and other beaded things.
And on the wall of the little orphanage there’s a fresco
Of Jesus, brown skinned brown eyed like the rest of us. He reaches
His arms, benevolent murals, he looks out and he sees us.
Surrounded by painted orphans, They reach
To him. And my orphan says he and I have similar haircuts.
The news reports only stories of diseases, kidnappings,
Drug violence, it scares the mommies and daddies away so they never
Adopt, while customs catches the drugs and fruit flies at the border so they don’t cross.
And so that the undesirable things stay on their side. I would cross myself
Often when I was my orphan’s age, and talk outright right out loud to Jesus as if
He were my best friend. Now I worry about talking with friends
Who are imaginary and who probably don’t hear me. Since I’ve become an adult,
I still sometimes say his name, when I’m angry or when I orgasm, or when it’s god-
Damn Monday. Then I prayed for girlfriends and video games, but now when alone
I’ll sometimes catch myself saying, Jesus Christ, please find my orphan a home.
