El Rey de L.A.

With a plastic fork

he scuppered the dessicated hull

of a french fry,

and he raked the hot hills

with a plastic fork.

An armadillo scoots upstream along

the gurgling embankment of a river

walled in. She sniffs the salt air

condensing it into crystals of amber.

Don Juan Mescalito,

strawberry-faced youth,

you can catch him crisscrossing the playa,

sand burning the black of his soles

with each resolute step.

To skirt the scrubby canyons of Malibu

passing from someplace like Yuma,

or up from the green hills of Juarez

or coming down from Bakersfield

circumventing the grey smoke of

a campsite in San Berdino.

Catch him on his way down through the passes.

For a handful of frijoles he will lead you without a nod

zig zagging his way down to infiltrate

the ruddy heart of the township,

where fourty-five strokes of the clock

and the coyote's lament pierce the membrane of night.

Allay! Allay! Allay!

Your one hundred and one bones pulled from the tarry pits,

fragments that will never assemble,

weave a patchwork of cradles

so the pueblo babies with coins in their bellies can sleep

under neon skies.

The parapets of your motte

rise high over the black beetles who

cling to the desert blooms,

a varicose penumbra across the forgotten moon.

The torito lizards dash underfoot

on their scorched bellies along the pavement,

searching among the bleached stones.

We are the ones for whom his majesty cut open the earth

and spilled his elixir into the ruts of antique streets

gone back to chaparral.

Lobos, Lobos, Lobos, Lobos

They come up from the sea

foul with the death reek of another helpless quarry

they stalk along the hidden passageways

ducking from eave to eave, to avoid the rain

and lie in the splendid dens of jaguars.

The rushing of water reverberates

along the trembling paper walls.

The tide comes in infinitely,

and will not let them sleep.