Here's one that I'd like to read to you.
I just came from a restaurant where the food was fabulous,
and it's hard to read after you have such a great meal.
But I did ask for one of those little espresso shots.
Woo.
Like Bukowski, does anybody have a beer?
No.
OK.
This one is my story about a man who goes to look for his
parents , and he finds his mother.
And this is the story about his mother.
At dawn, rusted field iron, stock tanks, and gates,
smolder mist.
Engine echoes humming deep shafts of gray dawn silence.
Then we're away beyond the railroad tracks.
Padre Padilla tugs the knotted bell rope,
claps the iron, welcome to black veiled viejas mumbling
Spanish prayers as they walk down field paths meandering
to the church.
Some men arrive on horses shuddering due
from their flanks, snorting at the sweet scent of field
flowers.
Distant groans from St Francis Church reach you mother
as you scraped seed out of the feed sack.
Slop, last night's supper greens to chickens
and pale windmill water to calves and pigs.
You were the most beautiful girl in the pueblo.
Good natured, smiling, green-eyed fair skinned.
After school, the bus left you on tracks you followed home,
and the lonely afternoon in the vast expanse of Yanan
was a blue knife sharpening it's silver edge
on the horizon of mountains.
The wind blew over and breathed a cool sigh of disk
whirling sand at your ankles, rustling corn stocks,
rippling water and troughs and blowing your thick flowing
hair.
You hung out at the local gas station,
dreamed of being a calendar pin up girl,
and four hours flipped through romance magazines
and imagined yourself in a bathing suit embraced
by a matinee idol.