Chicano poet sits down to write

Pluma en mano

Empty page

Heart full of dolor y Amór

Dodgers game is about to start

Chicano poet will write mañana

This Is What Happens

This is what happens when you spill tea on your keyboard.

Your keys stick and you can’t get the action from them you used to.

Suddenly wat you knew when you hit the little keys and they bounced back at you

is gone

Because the sticky tea you tried to wipe up quickly and let air dry is somehow in the little cracks and grooves of this machine that was a buddy, a pal, a confidant who was there reliably every time.

Suddenly, things don’t work as well as they once did.

They stick.

They mess up and it all seems to go wrong.

It doesn’t turn out the way you wanted.

So you pound on the keys and try to wipe them down with the most gentle cleaner you can find, crossing your fingers you don’t do something you’re not supposed to do and suddenly you have a paperweight.

Do those even exist anymore?

So now, as I type this and try to get my keys to bounce back at me and let the misspelling happen while the program automatically spellchecks my words and changes them for me…

“NO computer, it wasn’t vociferous I was trying to spell. Why would I even type that?”

… I knock against my keys like Ringo Starr being “Atouk”, “Macha! Macha! Macha!”

This is why I can’t have nice things.

In These Times

It’s been difficult. Right? These times.

It’s been difficult to figure out what to do, what to feel, what to think when we watch tv or read the stories on the internet feeds of our friends and “those you may know” telling us who is doing what and why this person is an asinine capital A-hole and to just try to relax, wear your mask and hope this will all go away.

It’s been difficult to wake up, even though our eyes open and our bodies tell us activity must be done.

The laundry piles up in the basket, in the corner, on the bed and another day goes by when we start to wonder if we’re coughing because we got La Rona or if because the funk of a few weeks of quarantine days gone by have finally reached unsanitary levels.

These times, these unprecedented time of empty shelves and empty cupboards where First World abundance overflowed.

These times, where the true leaders are the ones everyone ignored or tipped poorly because their food didn’t come out fast enough, or hot enough, or their refuse wasn’t picked up on the right day.

These times, when the Front Lines are protected and held by those who fight un/under-equipped, but with the power of their spirits and hearts and will to do “all in my power to maintain and elevate the standard of my profession”. They, who are there Every. Time.

These times, though difficult, will pass to “remember when?”.

But this time, remember gratitude, remember love, remember the sun will rise and the laundry will get done, eventually. Remember it’s okay to feel scared, stressed, frustrated and to watch that next series or movie or complete that next puzzle. Let your feelings come during these times. It’s time to feel them.





A New Morning

It started like any other morning.

Aches and pains, grinding popping joints struggling to rise from the sanctuary of the bed and embracing covers. Bed head atop squinty-eyed mattress damaged face. Trying not to breathe out too much to melt the paint from the walls from morning dragon breath.

The chirping alarm rang from the smart-phone on the side table after the third, no – Fourth, snooze attempt. Finally there was surrender. The phone won the battle.

After the process of the “3 S’s”, the day was moving along. But there was one more goal, one more thing to get before anything else could be done today.


The black and silver coffee machine percolated and bubbled and released the elixir of life and sanity. Filling the mug with the insurance companies logo on it. The one no-one remembers where it came from or how it go into the cupboard. But it was no matter, it was the best mug. Deep and wide and filled to the brim with the dark liquid of promise.

It was hot. It was good.

Empty cup in the sink beside empty dish, breakfast was done. Consciousness was back.

Outfit chosen, hair combed, teeth brushed, shoelaces tied, last second check – keys/wallet/phone.

Deep breath in and the front door was opened.

Then the memory came.

Stay At Home.









Swish, swish.

No one walks up a flight of stairs like she can. Each supple foot landing delicately on each step with no effort. She rises like she’s being lifted by a cloud to the next step.


Her hip moves with a sway. Slow, deep. My eyes follow the flow.


Like a deep breath, her hip rises and causes my heart to beat harder.

Swish, swish.

One step at a time. Slowly. Artfully. Creatively drawing my eyes to each movement. Each note of her symphony. Every fold of fabric gliding across her delicate skin.


I’m watching.


I could watch forever.

Swish, swish.

It’s over. She’s reached the top. She turned to see where I’m at and I’m still at the bottom.

I’m busted.

She caught me staring.

But it’s okay. We’ve been married 15 years, together for 22.

And I run up the stairs into her arms.