stupid america, see that
chicano
with a big knife
on his steady hand
he doesn't want to knife you
he wants to sit on a bench
and carve christfigures
but you won't let him.
stupid america, hear that
chicano
shouting curses on the street
he is a poet
without paper and pencil
and since he cannot write
he will explode.
stupid america, remember
that chicano
flunking math and english
he is the picasso
of your western states
but he will die
with one thousand
masterpieces
hanging only from his mind.

A Day is Coming
By Lalo Delgado, 1994
From A Day is Coming, 32 days of Abelardo

A day is coming
in which misery will end.
A day is coming
in which poverty
will open bank accounts
in every nation.
A day is coming.
I hear it coming.
A day is coming
in which the
campesino
will gather his children a green spring
and go on vacations.
I believe it.
I see it.
A day is coming
in which a soldier will be
decorated
for helping
instead of killing
his poor brother.
A day is coming
in which lovers
will serve themselves from large bowls
warm love and faithfulness.
A day is coming
in which the Christ who returns
is the Christ who never left.
A day is coming
in which the father will ask the son
for friendship
instead of respect.
A day is coming
in which the student
and a poor laborer
will be half and half.
A day is coming
in which the prisoners
come out
running in the fields and shouting
about their freedom.
A day is coming,
I see it coming.

El Barrio
By Lalo Delgado, 1994
From A Day is Coming, 32 days of Abelardo

I am that piece of land
which is always getting out of hand,
the one la ciudad
is trying to hide.
I house gente to whom
the American dream has lied.
In my corners stand
the youth morena without future.
Monday's wash on the
tendederos
tells a torn fable
as a chisme drying up
from some comadres' mouths.
My calles clutter with litter,
with the weight of many needs.
My ambiente is
a constant S.O.S.
which no one heeds.
I am the alma mater for lost souls and bodies.
Yo soy the unkept laboratory
where the social worker studies.
I erupt like a volcano with an upset stomach.
Yo escupo the sick, the delinquent.
I am a hammock for the prostituta,
a burial place for ambition.
Yo soy el barrio, the slum, the ghetto,
progress' sore thumb.
Collectively I am a spirit
which is explosive.
Yo fabrico defeat
of a plausible quality.
Conservatively, comfortably,
soy a casa for all
who suffer, thirst and hunger.
I form a precious rubble.
I am humano,
my skin absorbs diseases.
Through the marrow of my huesos
a rat releases,
playful cucarachas
and dancing lice are festive pieces
as the barrio readies for the coming of Jesus.

Bugs

By Lalo Delgado, 1999
From A Day is Coming, 25 days of Abelardo

What have you
when in two
you cut a worm
or a few?

No they don't die,
they multiply
and grow new parts
and that's no lie.

How is a roach,
which travels coach,
been able to survive
frozen and poached?

Without a face
in outerspace
a living cell
awaits its place.

Human intellect
does not yet reflect
why while man crumbles
bugs remain intact

Lalo
By Magdaleno, 1999

tonight we sing his praise
we read his poems
we think of all his life
we give to him our heart of hearts
our wind for all of his tomorrow's

we toast his fame
we build his name
we try to keep him near
we sing his song
we travel with him to the moon

tonight we give to him
a gift from mother earth
a gift from all our rains
a bell for him to ring

tonight we sing his song
and love him more
than more can be.