Tio Congo, Montelongo, Juan Roja y Barbarosa,
Don Mertola, Fran Uribe, Señor Bidawi & Santosa:
one clambered and clawed up an electrified wall
dreaming a vendor’s cart and a hilltop house;
another sang a ricochet of arias through midnight blood
fainted from the mallet-smash of articulating bone.
Another breached the borders unscathed,
but turned into a sex sponge in Kansas City;
that one unknowingly entered the cave of the skull;
yet another recalled the marquis in Zona Norte,
STREEPTEEZE jumbled like broken bones,
then thinks of other things as she threads a rug.
And that one, he just sinks into the couch, every night
after his shift, and becomes a great big papa rellena.
The imperial flower of the Incas lacks a holy remedy.
Quieres ganar? Fight the hierarchy? Orbidalo, these are
the dice: ten thousand down for the rest of your life—
then they toss you out, like yesterday’s lettuce.
Bienvenidos a todos: this is your America.
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