Friday, May 20, 2005


As I drove
With my friend
We entered the
Border community
Of Playas
We saw
Through the dividing
Metal fence
Landscaping workers
Restoring the park
Next to the beach
It had been abandoned
Left to die
With the ugly
Game of politics
Amigo Crosthwaite’s column
In a San Diego newspaper
Touched some sensitive nerves
Some place far away
In a government office
A decision was made
And change was
Taking place
The power of the media
Crosthwaite said
His hands on the steering wheel
On the windshield
The majestic Coronado Islands
We were driving into the sunset
Better than a Hollywood flick
Far greater than any piece
Of kitsch merchandise
The power of the press he said
I saw this
Battle won with
The power
Of the word


I went out
To hunt rabbits
In the moonlight
I got bitten
By mosquitoes

Wednesday, May 18, 2005


The kid that cleans my car
As I wait to get
My daily X-ray fix
My radiation passport
So I can cross
The international border
Clean is one of my
Favorite friends
And he’s got
A big heart
And it is spotless
Like the car’s are
When he’s done
Working on them
He told me
About one of
His fellow auto cleaners
How he got beaten
With a telescopic baton
By a US border agent
For cleaning automobiles
On the American
Side of traffic
He took the
Punishment in submission
When the border guard finished
And placed his attention elsewhere
As they often do
The Mexican worker
Playfully pushed him
Like a clown in a circus
The guard fell
On the pavement
Among the motor oil stains
His colleagues tried
To arrest the comedian
But it was 3 meters to late
He sprinted to
Mexican soil
And it seemed that
The whole world laughed.


I sat at the table
Waiting for my turn to read
And this short story writer
Was reading some
Of his work

He was next to me
And he had a mike
Close to his mouth
And a captive audience
As collateral

The guy was good
He knew his short stories
Very well
And I was concerned
Because he would be
A tough act to follow
I really enjoyed
His work
And the audience did too
All that immaculate Spanish
And I only had
Bilingual poems

But his left hand
The one closest to me
Was shaking uncontrollably
As if he was a soldier
On his first battle field

I felt bad for the guy
So I took a drink
From my paper cup
It had beer in it
The other writers
At the table had booze
In theirs
To the media and
The folks sitting in the theater
It looked like coffee

And I thought to myself
Grab you hand
So it shakes no more
And you will shoot strait

And he did just that
He finished his reading
In one piece
Then came
The roar of applause.