The Twilight Zone
(Tribute to Frankie Cocaine)
.
We were cool playing pool
in the Twilight Zone.
We knew all ‘bout 8 ball,
green slate I would own.
Drinking beer with no fear
gulping down white speed.
Acting tough, talking rough,
making knuckles bleed.
There were dudes doing ludes
falling through the glass.
Others stood (if they could)
smoking Jamaican grass.
We would fight. I would bite
in the Twilight Zone.
Showing might in the night
that was all we’d known.
In the day we would pay
with our pounding brains.
Like a jerk, go to work
drugs still in our veins.
Come real soon, afternoon
we would crawl back in.
Breathe stale smoke, cough and choke,
Sip on watered gin.
Then we’d wait in our hate
for the evening meal:
Frank Cocaine in his pain,
so stoned he would kneel,
On the floor by the door,
straining to get out.
First he cried, then he died
all of us did shout:
We are cool playing pool
in the Twilight Zone!
Our disease, lost the keys
no way to get home . . .
Damn our hex, easy sex
this would fool us too.
With a bitch or a witch
trapped inside the zoo.
In the stench we would wrench
feeling all alone
And we’d cry, and we’d lie
and tell you we had grown.
With a punch in the gut
you could hear us moan:
If we try we can die
in the Twilight Zone.
.
“The Twilight Zone” was originally published in the 1984 fall issue of Joint Endeavor, a literary magazine previously edited and published by inmates at Huntsville State Penetentiary, P.O. Box 32, Huntsville, Texas 77340
Love to Death
.
She makes love to your blood.
But when it’s over,
there’s no resolution,
only mad desire.
.
You were kickin’ it
with your homeboys and
like a shot in the night
she came, Ms. Cargá.
You were a virgin
but you couldn’t back down.
Everybody was makin’ it with her
and getting’ off!
.
It went in so easy
and man the feelin!
Noddin’ off
you floated off the floor forever.
But after you came back down
the memory was like breathin’.
.
You heard her voice,
felt her heart,
faint at first,
then louder and louder and louder!
You had to have her
take you in,
again, and again, and again …
Nothing else mattered.
.
Poor infected child.
You knew nothing.
She caught you in her web,
this black widow.
Only her species
takes years to devour her lover.
She eats a small piece
of your body
and each time she leaves
you pray for her return.
Of the Father and the Son
.
Too much
Mixing controlled
Substances
Premature
Expulsion
Immaculate Guilt
.
Full contact
Un-padded pressure
Loco motion
Sleepless distance,
Making Time
Fold into rage.
.
Another sunrise
And nothing left
But to ram himself
Into the tree.
He growls and eats the grass.
His Abuela prays
.
Every day in the name
Of the Father,
Who comes out of the house
In nothing but his white
Fruit of the Looms
.
And the Son,
He fireman carries
Into the house
Because of himself,
The grass and the tree
.
Not the rest
Of the world
Which is what the Son feels
Believes
Not the weight of the world,
But the strength of his father’s back
And the rest he feels
On his shoulders.
The Rumble
.
The blue Charger roars
into the parking lot.
Tires squealing
in the pain of burning rubber.
headlights glaring
grill gleaming like silver fangs
tears into the pack of stunned warriors,
who scatter like a flock of scared crows.
The slower ones thud off the hood.
The rest of North
spreads into South
like a school of blood-frenzied sharks.
The bronze warrior at the front swings a crowbar
like a windmill in the fury of a storm.
An enemy comes up from behind
and smashes the bronzeman
crowning his head with a bottle.
He is blinded, for a moment,
by a shower of screaming glass.
.
When his eyes clear
from the blood that he tastes
he sees his homeboys
swarming upon the fallen few
like mad hornets stinging bloodied meat,
their boots banging out
a beat of muffled grunts.
Enraged,
he pushes them aside
and hammers away
at some long, scraggly black hair,
matted against a bloody head.
The skull cracks.
His crowbar splashes deeper
splattering blood in the night.
.
A siren’s wail disperses the angry swarm.
The crimson crowbar slips from his bloody hand;
he is pulled away.
The gang scurries to their cars
And retreat to the woods
where they guzzle down brew around a fire.
They brag about their feats,
exaggerating each blow,
and search each other’s eyes for acceptance.
.
The bronze warrior sits in a shroud of ice
and searches the fire for his soul.
The Rape
.
Grease coverin’ my skin
so thick that I play
tic-tac-toe on my forearm
carvin’ Xs and Os with my fingernails.
But I’m not steppin’ in that sump of a shower again.
The last time I was in there my feet
sank up to my ankles is some breathin’ black shit.
There’s no rule that ya have to shower in here.
They won’t waste water hosin’ ya down.
.
This is a main black tier,
twenty three bloods and all crazy niggers.
Then there’s my big brown ass and some skinny Gabacho.
I just can’t believe they put him in here.
I heard a rumor runnin’ through the blood
that he was a chester molester.
The guards started it.
He was the tier punchin’ bag. In fact
you couldn’t even call him white anymore.
He was a permanent black and blue.
.
The air was racin’ through the bars
that day. There was a hunger hangin’ in the cells.
At the end of the tier were sittin’six whisperin’ wolves.
The Gabacho was leanin’ on the bars
with his elbows, and his hands hangin’ down.
They all kept starin’ at him hard.
Then they came; they picked him up,
shoved a dirty sock in his mouth,
and carried him like a floppin’ fish out of water
to the last cell farthest down.
Everyone disappeared in the shadows
and the tier got empty,
then filled with
one long cry
like a tortured dog howlin’ through a muzzle.
It got so loud I couldn’t hear
my own fear.
It was a sicknin’ kind of fear
that went through me fast.
My body was tremblin’
drivin’ my knees into the floor
I crawled into my cell
and got to be part of the plumbin’ under the sink.
I tried to push myself through the wall
then it was like his throat caved in,
his voice suddenly choked off.
And I could hear them;
moanin’ and groanin’ and moanin’ and groanin’
and the sound of their sweaty thighs
slappin’ and slappin’ and slappin’!
.
Later,
they came
and carried him away on a stretcher.
He was all curled in a ball
and shakin’ like he was freezin’ cold.
There was dried blood caked in cracked clumps
all over his back and his ass
and he was still bleedin’!
His blood soaked through the stretcher
and was drippin’ from underneath
a thin red trial.
.
So now, the bars rub sores on my back
but I won’t sit any other way.
All I do is play tic-tac-toe
carvin’ Xs and Os
X-O, X-O, X-O. . .
.
“The Rape” was originally published in Electrum THE QUARTERLY POETRY MAGAZINE, NO.38 SPRING 1986 and OCCIDENT U.C. Berkeley’s Literary Magazine Vol. CIII, No. 1 1990
Mi Hermanos
.
Why do we kill each other mi hermanos?
Because of territorial tradition,
Our macho condition,
The dusted coalition of our lives?
.
My skin is like yours.
Our streets are the same.
Our mothers wear the same black veils.
There are many closed doors.
We share the same pain.
They throw us in the same stinkin’ jails.
.
But we keep crusin’ round and round
over the same old ground.
You shoot my homeboy.
I pay back.
And they place another body on a cold steel rack.
.
We just drive by.
Our women cry.
But do we even understand why?
.
We have all the excuses of our race,
all those things that keep us in our place:
Unemployment, poverty and liquor.
And that chiva is always the kicker!
.
We chant Viva la Raza
From a steel windowed casa
and tell ourselves we have pride.
.
We let our children pack
and shoot all that smack
then look for a place to hide.
.
We pray to the Holy Mother
then war with each other
wasting ourselves away
.
We speed through it all.
To our knees we fall.
Why are we so willing to pay?
.
The answer mi hermanos is inside ourselves
but we have to give up our hate.
Stop playing the role of the Vato Loco!
It’s time to command your own fate!
How Do You Plan to Get Out?
.
Now that you’ve entered the system young man
how do you plan to get out?
When they say you are a threat to the community
what are you going to shout?
young and naïve. Mom’s
am ……………………. a
I ……………………………… drunk.
mistake. …..………………………… Dad’s
a …..………………………………… in
made ..……………………………………… the
have ……………………………………………….. joint.
I ..……………………………………………………. This
Honor ..………………………………………………… is
Your ……………………………………………………… why
…………………………………………………………… I
……………………..………………………………….. thieve.
…………………………………………………… You
………………………………………………… see
………………………………………………. I
……………………………………………. have
………………………………………. no
……………………………………….. respect
……………………………………. for
…………………………………. myself.
…………………………. This
……………………. is
…………………. why
………………. I
………….. use a
gun. It’s in
the hope
that some-
one will kill
me not simply
for fun.
.
Yes I use drugs
and drink a lot
that is surely my type:
armed robbery, burglary,
grand theft auto.
But your Honor I’m not a hype!
Son you’ll pay restitution and serve your time
and then you’ll return to the streets. And even
though you desire to change you’ll return to
your criminal feats. We’ll help you out and
guide you along and you will be placed on
probation. The system is designed to protect you
and your kind and serves the youth of our nation.
But you see
juvenile
offender
it’s easy
to get in
and for most
it becomes
a career.
There’s plenty
of opportunity
to be found in
state prison
the major
occupation is fear.
But you are still
young. You’re
sixteen and now
you know what
what it’s about.
Now that you’ve
entered the
system young
man how do
plan to get
out?
Watchman
.
“Watchman, what is left of the night?”
The Watchman replies,
“Morning is coming, but also the night.
If you would ask, then ask;
and come back yet again.”
.
Waking hours
hiding
behind their roles.
.
Put on
like armor.
.
Lights out at 9:30
but there’s no escape
in the night.
.
The dream wars begin.
.
Listen to them
wrestling with the enemy
talking to God
Pagas con tu meurte
el pendejo.
And it gets loud
when they start
screaming like
Go ahead shoot me vato! Shoot!
I’ll kill you ese!
Mamá lo siento.
.
Throbbing restlessness,
call it sleep
Fightin’ in the dream wars
Watchman, what is left of the mind?
.
Isaiah 21:11 NIV