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Attraction

– Daniel Romo

I say rain. You say pyro. I say Spain. You say Cairo. I say The Mexican-American War was actually started over a woman. You say tell me more. I say her name was Lupita Conchita de la Macarena. She batted her eyes and spread her thighs one too many times for a certain Anglo general. Her novio, Hilario the Hothead, took offense and killed the general’s mother. Saddled up his stallion and raided her place at dawn. Woke her from her dreams and doused her frail body in kerosene. Lit the fuse of her limbs until the blaze took apex in her stomach—her burning flesh the voice of her son’s transgressions. I say what a painful way to go. You kiss my cheek, run your hands down my chest, and whisper in my ear. Sizzle. Sizzle.

 

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A SMALL POEM IN WHICH SOCRATES,
MOZART, MATISSE, CHEKHOV AND
EINSTEIN ARE ALL SQUEEZED IN

– Ronald Baatz

Poor old Socrates had so few geniuses in history
to keep him company. He never had Mozart’s
piano music to listen to. He never had Matisse’s
colorful observations to find pleasure gazing at.
He never had Chekhov’s letters to read, one
in which he mentions enjoying a bowl of rich
sorrel soup in a train station. None of this was
available to him to help take his mind off matters.
We know this is not true of Einstein. We know
that he loved Mozart. But god only knows what
precious thoughts went through that brain of his
while listening. Perhaps, one evening, he thought
about the lovely young woman he had seen while
walking across campus lost in thought,
flakes of snow coming to rest in his hair
like the tiniest of birds, chirpless and blind.

 

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dos mundos

– Jose Arroyo

she lives among Joshua Trees
and teaches English in a 2-bit college on a hill
i live in a suburb 15 minutes east of East L. A.
and work for a 2-bit air-conditioning outfit
off the 10 freeway

we’ve been locked up in here all day
in this over-priced motel room somewhere in Redlands
the geographical half-way point between us
we have cigarettes, munchies and plenty to drink
as she snoozes on the bed
down for the count after another 3 rounder
and i try to get it all down by lamp light

this one here, she just can’t get enough
like me she has apparently been starved for some time
everywhere we go she wants to get down
once in a parked car, a few times in public restrooms
and the other day i was leaning on an ancient rock formation
at the Joshua Tree National Park with her rubbing up
against my thigh, like a dog, until she reached orgasm

the women of my past, i pushed them in the well
hidden in the deepest part of me and didn’t even say goodbye
i hear their voices now, as i write this, screaming up at me
to get them the hell out of there or throw down a gun
so they can put themselves out of their misery
i wonder if this one will end up down there with them…

 

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PO_ta_to_ETRY

– R L Raymond

You’ve got it
all wrong!
she snapped
as he cut
the spud
julienne.

I want
crinkles
not shoestrings!

He cut
patiently
each stick
just like
the last.

“We always
have crinkles…”

Sea salt
sprinkled
generously.

Her nose
wrinkled
disgustedly.

“Tonight
I want
shoestrings.”

 

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The Yellow House

– Charlotte San Juan

As you talk to me
The yellow house in your eyes
Flecks painted stories and
All the voices coming from you
Stem from that place.
The you that eats gummy bears
And patrols your street on bike.
The you that paints walls
Without permission.
The you that worked the drive-thru
Before I really knew you.
All of this comes off you in waves
Of thermal energy as hot winds
Push us around town,
Through water spigots
That make the ground dance.
And people stare but we’re
Two kids with cool lips
Reading Popsicle stick jokes
That they know nothing of.
And we make moves like
A bowl of watermelon
Dripping and juicing in the heat.
The you with a mouthful of black beans
And a door hinge that squeaks for me,
Turns left and waves out the window
As I keep on going straight, but—
The warmth of that yellow house
Sits on my wet lap like a sun
Who can’t decide whether to set
Or to rise.

 

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