Police call it organized crime. They know it as organized friendship.

The police officer relaxed a bit and put his arm against the car to lean against it.

“I thought people got down to folk around here,” said the college student the officer was talking to. “I mean, can’t you see it? A big diesel truck blasting something pre-Dylan. Banjos plucking to songs about the afterlife.”

The officer smiled.

He then proceeded to look around 7th street. Not a goddamn soul walked the rain-greyed road and sidewalk. A quick look at his watch told him 7:21.

The college student lit a cigarette and proceeded to take a heavy drag. And with the smoke finding residence in his lungs he asked, “Am I getting a ticket?” 

Exhale.

“Nah, I’m just trying to shake you up,” responded the officer.

Taking another drag, “Well, damn me to hell.”

Exhale.

“Try to keep the volume lower around this time of night. Some residents find loud mixtures of bass and drums annoying. Not to mention your raps about parents and dope.” 

“Mahadsanid,” farewelled the college student seeing the officer walk away from his window.

The officer laughed the way the college student’s mother would when Americans attempted to assemble Spanish words aloud. A reaction of poor pronounciation. Or simply out of cuteness. 

(to be continued)

Camus looks so badass.

I didn’t follow the storyline.

Horses, and this white girl who belonged

to the bad side, along with other whites. The men

told the green to go and shot at them. Every now and then

mariachi song would arise. Songs about river crossing

and the nostalgia of San Juan. The cobble stone, 

the fountain, the wife, and the way tortillas tasted 

with beer. It was a time when California was Mexico.

Mexico hasn’t always looked like a jalepeño, it was

part of a larger plant. And now it just looks like shitty weed.

But the sombrero side won and they fired shots from revolvers

into the air, Americans copied that later.

Not everyone can do something important.

Some of us have to pretend. From the looks of it,

more people have no one to talk to.

Everything will be alright 

when the bills are overdue

and the car still doesn’t start.

When the land lord slips a notice under the door.

I know of a lot of people that would be so stoked to see this.

The old Mexican couple running

the convenience store off of Lake

and Clinton light their candles to Guadalupe

around 4pm. It’s luck they told me.

The virgin was like Buddha’s big belly.

I would walk in to buy cilantro, mango nectar,

and pirated movies. And I would write

epiphanies at the bus stop next to the gang cursive.

Love claims places, but so does luck, said the old man

as he wiped his hands on a rag to the right

of the lottery tickets. And so does money.

I may not be eating today, but I’m drinking tonight,

said a guy at the bus stop. Clever plan. 

This guy

http://www.birdseyepoetry.org/id80.html

Read it. It’s a slight flex.

I didn’t smoke, but I wanted to

steal the cigarettes resting

on the table, resting

from my uncle’s lips.

-

No one watched, they were all drunk,

Slurring stories about Mexico, congratulating

my cousin for his second birthday.

-

My uncle told me to never do drugs.

And if I did, I was to invite him.

My father told me crossing the border

Is not what it used to be.

-

And they referred to the United States as Tio Sam.

-

The cigarettes still out in the open.

What could possibly prevent possibility?

Night would make use of my dark skin

to hide me with the trees.

-

My hand reached and pulled

one out of the box. But where

was the lighter, the flame

of touch?