I hear the sweetest voices of my generation,
Beaten into megabytes of bone white pulp,
Exposing your jelly, Sphinx Kitten,
More than that I explored in the open salon, but less than that I confessed,
I, Carla Peon, howling in the alley,
Licked clean your dirty wishes,
Pondering, Kitten, mi Salvadora,
If you recalled if you recalled me,
Who, crouching by your car,
Miles away on the inside ((as always (even now)), shut out the radio of the Regime and listened to the barrio,
Who, watching minorities migrating between the clean corporate cathedrals,
Clamored and dared their children to skateboard on the crystal steps,
Who, leaning up against the brick wall beside the sign Pussy Liquor,
Felt out of place like that Peyote Coyote over there,
Who, prowling in front of Pussy Liquor,
With slow suspicion, rolled eyes over your black ’57 Chevy,
Who, opening your trunk and stowing my groceries,
Looked up for stars that might not exist anymore,
Who, knowing that all this is inevitably predictable and logically typical,
Knew all along that it was not politically correct as it was left to us,
Who, if she quits smoking, gives up coffee, exercises, slows down, understands, forgives, doesn’t care, realizes and follows-through,
Would still howl in the web for you, mi Salvadora,
Who, being born and bred inside this instigated community,
Was never weaned, and was not insured to live,
Who, upon feeling the sky drop hints of rain,
Cracked her face laughing,
Who, with me as hot as a pizza box in your lap,
Picked cherries in winter,
Who, next morning, while assuring you that you can have your eggs “any style”,
Heard you say that you “didn’t want them that way”,
Who, under sunlight stripped by the wind,
Watched hot snow blowing on the mirror,
Who, eyes crossing to the church below,
Bowed as Peyote Coyote sniffed,
Who, stepping over the unpainted canvases on the floor,
Noticed on the bed, in thread, the eagle and the snake intertwined,
Who, seeing above, jars full of still lifeless brushes,
Knocked on the refrigerator door,
Who, finding Lover’s Nuts,
Ate hot peppers, stale, crusty tortillas, peanut-butter and Miracle Whip, with a can of Ginsberg Beer to wash it all down,
Who, balancing beer on the balcony,
Heard the yowling sirens and the barking horns,
Who, ranting against the failing social railing,
Called to the voices caught in the coal tar creosote of the telephone pole,
Who, seeing water like a green snake undulate down the alley below,
Felt the eagle flee to the back of her mind,
Who, saying Adios on the asphalt prairie,
Kissed your hand, Kitten, mi Salvadora, so warm, but imbedded with long cold nails,
Who, watching me as you drive away in a halo of fast-food wrappers,
Was numb with nostalgia,
Who, remembering that hard way home through my neighborhood,
Was afraid that you, Kitten, might never get away.

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