A Racehorse, A Barn Owl, and I

Fog descended on the track

In early morning deviation from the delta

Sudden coming with galloping hooves

Enveloping eardrums with equine pounding 

As all other sounds were muffled by gray mist

And my own quickened heart beat

As vision obscured without warning

And ground underneath disappeared in cloud

And a racehorse and rider took flight

At the exact moment a barn owl did alight

On the rail

Our only tie to earth that for a moment

A racehorse, a barn owl, and I left behind.

"They will kill me . . . "

The dissonance of a political dissident
Sounded cliche
To my United States of American
Ears accustomed to hearing,
"My dad will kill me if he finds out"
And other idioms of death
Thrown about meaninglessly.

In my defense I did not know he was
Dissident; he was just a groom.
He was not just another Mexican.
But all those countries south,
To the average United States of American,
Are the same.
Even Guatemala in the 1980s.

When Immigration went on raids,
Carlos was afraid.
He always said,
"They will kill me if I go back."
How cliche.
When Carlos was deported,
We never heard from him again.

     **     **     **     **

History is the current event
Of yesterday
Within your comfort zone.
It is easier to take sides with the dead.
They don't require your helping hand
To pull them from a grave.
Your hands remain clean, not bloodied.

Your mental assent to their cause
Does not demand your personal descent
Into terror.
You can bury your head in the
Sands of history
And leave it there,
Safe from the sandstorm around you.

Know your history;
Escape the condemnation of
Repeating it.
Know that no one sits on the sidelines
Of its making.
Active or passive,
We all have blood on our hands.

The Oldest Professions

I know I have got it
From my baby-blue leggings
To the twirling whip in my fingers
To my long hair curling around my face
A breezy way.
My whip
Never hurts,
Is more to tickle;
And anyway it is a rule
I have to use it.

Yeah, so what if I am walking
On this sleazy street.
My profession usually does lead me
To the other side of the tracks.
I know what you are thinking
When you pull up leering
And roll down your window;
You leave me no doubts
When you open your filthy diseased mouth.
Go fuck yourself,
I have higher clientele.
And if you men looking for some cheap thrill
Mess with me again
You will meet the dagger in my boot.

He is the one,
The one with presence,
The one with it I saddle
For the thrill between my quivering thighs,
For anticipation at the gate
And its opening explosive.
I take pleasure in his sinewy strength.
Even the glory of his nostrils is terrible
And all that is heard is our breathing rush of life
To the place where tears stream from our eyes,
To the place we are one in power
And from which we are both left trembling.

Yeah, I know what you are thinking.
I will not tell you
What you can do to yourself,
Because I admit I led you astray
In telling my story.  But I used to be
Not a prostitute,
But an exercise rider.
For five dollars a head
I would ride a race horse
In a morning workout,
And some I would do for free.