For a Poet.

she is not a poetess,
she is a poet
she demands respect
as do all poets,
she is a poet
respect her as such.

The Kitchen.

Monday morning
they enter,
eat,
leave
classes intermingle
vendors place orders
-Aprons
different radio stations
simultaneously blast
the day has begun
around the kitchen
belts are sold
caps, shirts, c.d.'s
other cocinas
-Fresh agua de melon
delivery boys
working class clientele
working class operation
paisitas and compas new to the city
empty tour bus
fancy cars
dirty busses.

florycanto

my literary muse was sitting beside me
and we were listening to elder chicano poets
she was attentive
and was very critical
one of the panelists said something
about poets now a day focusing too much on
"I"
and we thought he was crazy
we saw ourselves in twenty years
the radical, the academic
the ever present ivory tower
the poets spoke of one Brown Buffalo
being followed by CIA agents
and having an after party at Buff's pad
over in the east side
i imagined a room full of young poets
drinking and smoking
inspiring one another
and then my muse pulled out a pen
and on the florycanto event program
she began writing
i looked over enough to see that she WAS writing
i am most attracted to my muse
when she puts words on paper
but i didnt look enough to see what she was writing
that's an intimate moment that i respect
one chicano poet was the veterano of the bunch
a second was an academic that loved to hear himself speak
his wife was a poet as were his children
a third poet had presence
we didnt stick around long enough for the last poet
the academic read five poems too many
but the best poet was on black and white celuloid
a mystery mujer from a 1979 recital
she had a nice stack of stanzas in her hand
her words were the most visual
a true poet
she reminded me of my muse
it was the 200th birthday of our motherland
we went back to the pad, in the kitchen we spoke of words
in another there was music
we smoked cigarettes and drank beer
we danced, i showed her the bands lyrics
she loves letters as much as i do
by nights end we were all drunk
and then i got the privlige of having her steal
one of my books, a book on Ricardo Flores Magon
my muse knows little shame
letters and words are of more importance
than any other woman that may enter my life
she is my literary muse for a reason
and with that our night came to an end