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.

Eight

Eleven

Five

Four

One

Nine

Seven

Six

Ten

Three

Twelve

Two

Zero

Stickman

the forked man picks his way
where he likes
among the hollowed trees
and the refuse of centuries
spewed in strata
over the ferment
this self-made man is tied
at the joints
with strips of dog hide
he is filled to the spout of his pointed chest
with the clotted ore of the earth
pushing the ground behind
with cobbled stilts
he could be said to amble
but more like he wheedles
moves with
a certain snappy
intelligence
head like a sack of arrows
full of unspent purpose
he’ll inspect with one smoky glass eye
the rise and fall of the ranges
and the hanged juries who preside
over his moldering mind
the moon is round
he said
like a cracked
and boiling egg

Lesson Plan - History of the Harlem Renaissance

Required materials:

1 dozen polar bears, faces painted black

1 dozen assorted bears in army fatigue costumes, acceptable species: North American black bears, Alaskan brown bears, at least 1 mature grizzly bear.

large bottle of barbecue sauce

Students are assigned a bear to bring with them to the following class. This assignment works best when given on a Friday. Students who do not bring a bear to class cannot participate in the project. They will have to sit in the corner during class time and cover themselves with barbecue sauce.

Old Crow

Caw!